


A Spirit in Shadows

by Mirach



Series: Aragorn in peril [9]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Back to Middle-Earth Month 2012, F/M, Gen, Hurt Aragorn, Near Death Experiences, Not Beta Read, Poisoning, Post-Canon, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 26,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22913311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach
Summary: If it is destroyed, then he will fall; and his fall will be so low that none can foresee his arising ever again. For he will lose the best part of the strength that was native to him in his beginning, and all that was made or begun with that power will crumble, and he will be maimed for ever, becoming a mere spirit of malice that gnaws itself in the shadows, but cannot again grow or take shape.-J. R. R. Tolkien : the Return of the KingGondor in the 4th Age. The Queen has been poisoned, and the King would do anything to save her. Will that be enough? And what about Sauron after the loss of his Ring? As the line between friends and enemies blurrs, Aragorn finds himself in a difficult situation.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Sauron | Mairon, Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel
Series: Aragorn in peril [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1508084
Kudos: 26
Collections: Back to Middle-earth Month 2012: Bingo Baggins' BINGO Bash





	1. The Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for B2MeM 2012: "Bingo Baggins' Bingo Bash" organized by Silmarillion Writers' Guild. The bingo cards had thematic prompts on them, and you could claim as many as you wanted. Obviously, I claimed too many… (but they were so interesting!) And not only did I do that, but decided to write one continuous story with them as well! I didn't write it chronologically though, just added the prompts to the place where they fitted in the story, writing all chapters simultaneously. If the story seems strange to you, that might be the reason. I tried to edit it after the end of B2MeM. The state it is now is not as good as it could be, but it would need more time and effort to improve it, and I wanted to bring this endeavour to closure already, so I posted it at it is. It has not been beta read and I am not a native speaker, so highly probably there are mistakes.
> 
> [Here is a list of cards that can be found in this story](http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=7017&cid=31025), because they are a reason this story turned out as it did. Many times I already forgot which prompt on which card made me write something, so I was afraid to delete anything in case it was some prompt that I've already claimed. Some chapters are in the form of a collection of drabbles and can be skipped without missing the plot. I will probably post a few chapters a day.

In the Dwarven kingdom of Erebor, statues of ancestors looked down upon the living, reminding them on their history carved in stone. There were Thorin Oakenshield and his sister Dís. After the death of her sons Fili and Kili and her husband she married Dáin II, the father of Thorin III - father of the Dwarf that was looking at the statues now: the pictures of both his ancestors and descendants.

Sauron was there.

He had no form and no shape, no power to do anything, but even so, he could feel the eyes of the young Dwarf piercing him. He was a youngling, just staring to grow a beard, but in his eyes Sauron could see the knowledge of ages. A circlet wrought of mithril was upon his brow, and Sauron knew that it was the same one the dwarf made himself of the first mithril mined from Khazad Dûm in one of his previous lives.

"Aulendil…" Durin the Deathless said quietly, in a tone that was almost inviting. Sauron wanted to flee from that look, to hide in the darkness… but he stayed. The Dwarf before him was the son of Thorin III Stonehelm, who ruled Erebor after his father Dáin was killed during the War of the Ring – his Ring… But the thought of the Ring was fleeing, and did not torment him anymore like it used to before.

"I remember you…" the Dwarf smiled slightly, but there was no joy in that smile. "You were at Mahal's side when he taught us to speak, in the time when we were only his children."

The memory of that time was bitter and painful now, but still he welcomed it, driven to it like a moth to a flame. Aulë's wish for his own children did not go with Ilúvatar's plans, just like his own wish for order. Cursed creations, that had to be destroyed - and yet Ilúvatar took pity of them, and gave them their own will and place in the tales of Arda. But he did not take pity of him…

"I remember you…" Durin VII repeated, and now his voice sounded dark and merciless as it echoed in the carved halls. "You captured and killed Felagund, the Hewer of Caves. All hammers went quiet in that moment, and all forges cold."

Sauron shivered, remembering Finrod as their Songs fought each other, the light of the Two Trees in his eyes and firm determination in his face… and the same face pale and worn out as the Orcs dragged him away from Sauron's throne, unconscious. They were not gentle with the King of Nargorthrond, the friend of Men and Dwarves – they were dragging him by his hair, leaving a bloody trace on the floor…

"If you came her seeking forgiveness, Aulendil, I am not the one who can give it," Durin continued coldly, but there was a hint of sympathy in his voice.

Sauron though about his words, even as he fled from the Dwarven halls, wondering why he even went there and what did he hope to find.


	2. Another place and time

„When shall we meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Halbarad. We will meet in three days in the Prancing Pony.”

“Three days of this terrible weather…” Halbarad muttered.

Aragorn laughed shortly. “It is just rain, not the Fell Winter. Think of the pints old Barliman Butterbur draws there, cousin…”

“And the mushroom stew…” Hathol added.

“Whatever…” Halbarad didn’t look quite appeased. “So, I’m going with Hathol and you with Bregor. See you above a pint!”

“Or two,” Aragorn smirked, and the four Rangers split their ways.

Bregor never made it to Bree.

There was a hill on their path, and they were just discussing if they should circle it from right or left. But something was not right. The birds were too quiet, maybe. A hawk flew suddenly from a tree. Keeeee! Keeeee! Its scream cut the cloudy sky. Next, arrows whistled.

Aragorn ducked to the ground, more on reflex than on a conscious thought. A quick glance at Bregor told him that his companion escaped with a scratch on his shoulder as an arrow nearly missed him. Then there was no time to look around or think.

Aragorn rolled to get from the line of fire, and then stood up from the dust and in a blur of movement jumped into the bushes where the arrows were coming from. The ambushers had no time to shoot another arrow as the two rangers descended upon them just like the hawk on its prey. They were robbers, expecting the merchants heading to the market in Bree, not Rangers. Or so it seemed in that time…

Later, when Bregor started feeling sick, Aragorn wasn’t that sure. In an hour, the man fell unconscious, and didn't respond to his calling. In five hours, he was dead, and Aragorn couldn’t do anything. There was some poison on the arrow, a poison unknown to him. He could only watch as Bregor descended into darkness. That day, he failed as a healer, he though. He could not save Bregor. He only could take his body to protect it from wild animals, and carry it the rest of the way, a heavy burden on his heart. When he meets with Halbarad and Hathol, they will buy a splintery coffin in Bree and bury him into the soaked ground behind the gates. Death of old age was getting rare among the Dúnedain as the world darkened. Yet nobody would care for a dead Ranger there… Aragorn gritted his teeth, alone with his grief.

In Prancing Pony, they ordered a pint in Bregor’s honour. The ale was cold and bitter, as their lot seemed in that moment.


	3. Shadow in Minas Tirith

It was years later, but that moment stood out clearly in Aragorn’s mind. Arwen has fallen sick in the morning. First he thought it’s just a stomach flu – was she susceptible to illness as well, now that she has given up her immortality? No, her body was still the one of an Elf, and that worried Aragorn immensely. And then, she lost consciousness.

When he remembered that rainy day when all his training as a healer was in vain, his heart froze. He didn’t leave Arwen’s side. Her pulse, the feeling of her skin… the same symptoms. Slower, but still the same…

He didn’t want to admit it. Not yet. He could be wrong. He wanted to be wrong. But what if you are right, a little voice in his mind told him. You do not have much time, and you need answers. No, you need to be with her, another part of his mind argued. If you are right, you need to use all the time you have together, you need to be with her until the end… That thought drove a cold, bitter thorn into his heart. He would do anything for her. But would he sacrifice the last hours with her for a chance to find a cure? Would he dare to hope? He was Estel, and he was a healer.

He put his hand on Arwen’s brow. “ Easy, vanimelda. I will leave you with Eldarion for a while, but I will be back soon, and I will get something that will help you. I love you…” He kissed her on the brow, and left the room. Only those who knew him well would be able to see the pain in his eyes that he was carrying with him. 

He always knew he will be the one to die first, whether of old age or by the hand of another, in the many war campaigns that Gondor had to lead after the defeat of Sauron. Now, he fulfilled his name Envinyatar - Renewer: peace ruled in the Reunited Kingdom, and the scars of the war were almost healed. Still the weariness of old age was several decades away, although he was reminded on it every day when he looked into Faramir’s face, where age was already leaving its mark.

The aging Steward has surrendered the duties to his son Elboron, who have been a great help and friend to Aragorn just like his father before - Faramir taught him well. Aragorn himself has known the joy of fatherhood, and watching his son and daughters grow up and teaching them was delightful and fulfilling, just like having Arwen at his side. He always thought they have many more years together, years of peace and happiness… No, he was not prepared to lose her, he could not!

He sent for Eldarion first, and now the Steward was talking with Arwen's maidens, trying to find out how the poison got to the Queen, while Eldarion sat with his mother. Aragorn trained him in the healing arts himself, as so he knew he is leaving his queen in capable hands. The King did not join any of them, though. He climbed the stairs of Ecthelion’s tower into the highest chamber. His hope for answers lay there – the palantír.

He removed the cloth covering it, and for a moment he observed the Seeing Stone, the obsidian surface, so perfect in its glassy smoothness. Yet every time he saw the palantír, he remembered the night in Hornburg, the battle of wills against a cruel mind of darkness and fire. The moment when it felt like his mind was in a furnace and it only could melt in fire or harden like steel and resist.

He took a deep breath, and touched the stone. At first, he saw nothing. Then images came in rapid succession for he didn’t know what he is looking for: images of green hills and high mountains, of deep seas, battles fought in distant countries for causes he knew nothing about…

Suddenly, a voice pierced the images, sounding as a thought in his mind. “Congratulations to your victory, heir of Isildur…”

He gasped. A part of his mind jumped in panic, but he didn’t sense any malice directed against him in the voice.

“Who are you?” he asked carefully.

“You do not know, Elessar?” The voice paused, then continued quietly, in a mere whisper. “The pupil of my eyes was gold and empty. But now I am blind…”

Aragorn blinked, as the pieces of the riddle fell into place. The palantír of Minas Ithil was taken to Barad Dûr after the Tower of the Rising Moon fell and became Minas Morgul. Barad Dûr fell when the Ring was destroyed, but where was the stone now? Cold sweat covered Aragorn’s brow. 

“Sauron!” he hissed, and wanted to let go of the stone immediately, but something stopped him. No, not the will of the one who once commanded vast armies of darkness. He didn’t have any power and shape left now. It was… he didn’t even know what. Curiosity? The unwillingness to run from a fight? Frustration for not finding the answers he wanted? Hope to get them from Sauron? He did not really know. But he did not let go.

Almost instinctively, he fought, tried to push the other’s mind out of the palantír, just like before. Like when Finrod Felagund battled Sauron with Songs of Power was the duel, but the songs were in Aragorn’s mind, and there was no sound in the room as they fought – a duel of songs and memories in absolute silence.


	4. Palantír

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter describes the fight in the palantír, in the form of drabbles or short ficlets (I had to put all those unrelated prompts somewhere, you see…). If you wish, you may skip it without missing much of the plot.  
> One of them (titled "Heat rising") is rated M.  
> And there was a haiku prompt somewhere in the one titled "Love".  
> For the one titled "Cousins", I borrowed Cairistiona's OC Denlad as a response to the prompt "use the OC of another author in your story".

**Trees**

The White Tree blossoming on the fountain square, the blooms like living silver…

The tree dead and dry. Eärnur rode to challenge the dark power. Gondor has no king.

The seed in the soil, high up the Mindolluin. The hope waiting for its time…

The destruction of Osgiliath and its tree. Anárion dying…

Isildur planting a seedling of the White Tree in Minas Anor in the memory of his brother, after the King’s House moved there. 

Nimloth falling under the axes of Ar-Pharazôn’s men. Fire devours the white wood, the smoke of it rising dark into the sky from the altar. Hungry flames lick the wood, and white turns to black.

Isildur stealing a fruit of the tree from the circle of the guards’ halberds, carrying it out of the destruction of Númenor…

The Songs flew back and forth, from an image of a strong tree, its branches laden with flowers, to the image of dead, lifeless trunk and wood.

* * *

**Elanor**

Aragorn did not give up. He sang of light and hope, of friendship. A memory of his Hobbit friends came to him, and he sang of it – of the moment not long ago when he visited Shire and Sam Gamgee welcomed him, apologizing that he can’t show his daughter Elanor to him, for she was just ill on chicken pox. Aragorn just smiled, and asked Sam to bring Elanor into his tent at the borders of Shire, for he didn’t want to make an exception from his prohibition for the Big Folk to enter the Shire even for himself. So Sam came together with his wife Rosie and their daughter.

Elanor was five years old in that time. She was wearing a lively orange dress with frills and whimpered when she beheld him first. But his healing touch soothed her, and she smiled, and her blue eyes shone with innocence. Aragorn was moved deeply, feeling such joy that it almost hurt. He spent the next days tending to her, preparing poultices for the itching spots that brought the child much relief, and soon she was chatting with him merrily. He found out that Sam has even taught her several words in Sindarin.

Sam never left his side, and they talked much about memories or things concerning Shire. Sam told him about the funeral of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who passed away just a year after the scouring of the Shire – Frodo held a speech at it, and it was a very nice speech, as Sam told him. And Pippin is getting married to Diamond of Long Cleeve soon, did you know that?...

It was not how Aragorn imagined his visit, but he enjoyed every moment of it. And when Elanor waved at him when the kingly escort was leaving, it was one of the dearest memories he carried with him back to the South.

* * *

**Silver Fist**

The presence in the palantír wavered as if it wouldn't expect such fight. But it recovered quickly, and before the lovely picture of Elanor Gamgee and friendship could fill the entire palantír and push Sauron away, he countered with a Song of his own, and the surface of the seeing stone darkened. Another picture came forwards:

The holly trees rustled in grief and pain. Eregion burnt. Celebrimbor. His body broken, blood seeping into the floor… tortured almost beyond recognition… He did not tell anything. He did not reveal the Three.

Sauron looked at his body with a cold fury and dispassion. And then… something broke in him, and he wept. If for the grandson or Fëanor or for himself, he did not know. In the next moment though, his expression cold and unreadable. Never more did he shed a tear in that age of the world.

The tears that fell on the stone floor mixed with the blood of Celebrimbor. One drop found a tiny crack, and seeped into the stone. Down, down into the darkness below the mountain it moved, slowly, inch by inch. It found its way to an underground lake, smelling of dead fish. There a pale, boneless creature just found its way from a translucent egg. It drank the drop together with the cold waters of the lake. The Watcher awoke…

* * *

**Riddles in the Hall of Fire**

Aragorn shivered, but reached into his memories for a picture of warmth and love. A memory from his childhood came to his mind…

He was ten, and he watched his brothers returning from a patrol in the mountains into the hidden valley of Imladris. They have been cleaning the mountain passes from the remaining goblins, who fled the battle of Five Armies after their chieftain Bolg have been killed. He envied them so much – he wanted to be a powerful warrior as well!

As it was though, he was just a boy, and having a cold in the moment, which was quite unfair. Despite that he sat in the Hall of Fire, wrapped in a warm blanket with a cup of hot tea in his hand, and hung upon their every word as his brothers talked about the news from Laketown, about great battles and dragons. He wished to see them by his own eyes then. How innocent was that child, Aragorn reliving the memory in the palantír thought. Now, he has seen too much of battles, too much death and suffering… But he stopped those thoughts immediately before Sauron could take any advantage of them, and returned to the boy in the Hall of Fire, named Hope.

"Hey, little one," Elladan turned to him suddenly back then, just when the talk turned to the logistics of supplies for refugees and other unimportant topics, and his head started to nod. "You have grown again, have you been drinking Ent-draughts?"

Estel chuckled and shook his head to indicate that he haven't. He just tried to drink a little of Elrond's wine when the Elven lord wasn't looking, but he found it distasteful and didn't know what the Elves see in it.

"You grow really quickly," Elladan smiled, and there was a strange wistfulness in his voice, that Estel did not recognize in that time.

"Do you want a riddle?" his brother asked suddenly, and the boy nodded eagerly, pleased by the attention.

Elladan grinned. "So… if you fall down the stairs, what will you fall against?"

"Elladan!" his father scolded him. "Do not give him such riddles! He might want to try it!"

Elladan smirked. "Against your will," he winked at Estel. "Well, I'll think of another riddle then." He thought for a moment, and then a slow smile spread on his face as he looked at Estel. "Which can move faster, heat or cold?" he asked without a preamble.

Estel looked at him with an uncomprehending expression. Elladan gave him several minutes, but when Estel couldn't think of an answer, he Elladan laughed. "Cold! Because you can catch it!"

That was followed by a wave of laughter in the room, and Estel grinned proudly for being faster than cold.

Elrond in his formal patterned robe shook his head good-heartedly. "Well, maybe you can catch cold, but you should be long in bed by this time, young Dúnadan!"

Estel grimaced. "But I want to listen to Dan and Ro. I have just cold, not a… pneumonia. Or bronchitis." He searched in his mind for the words for a moment - he just learnt them from Elrond in the healer lessons.

"That doesn't change anything about your need to sleep. Now go, and maybe tomorrow you will be already better."

Estel sighed, but complied. But on the way out of the room, he turned to the others once more. "I don't want to be sick anymore," he announced. "Last year I had an ear infection, and then a cold. And nobody else ever gets sick…"

Elrond smiled at him with understanding. "It is normal that children get sick. Elves don't, but still Elladan and Elrohir spend more time in the healing wards than you. If they could get sick as well, my hair would turn grey very soon…"

"It was just a scratch!" Elladan protested.

"You mean the concussion?" Elrond raised his eyebrows.

Estel chuckled. He seemed content with the response - for now. Elrond knew that the question will necessarily come again - the only child of Men, growing up in the house full of Elves. Self-doubt and sense of inferiority could not be avoided at times…

"Go to sleep now," Elrond smiled at him, "and I will steal some nice book from Erestor and come to read you in a short while."

"The one about Calimehtar fighting the Wainriders?" Estel asked hopefully.

Elrond smiled. "Maybe…"

* * *

**The Ring**

The picture changed. The fire in the hearth grew, swallowed everything. The palantír was filled with flames.

Long he has prepared this moment. Ages of study and magic lore - _gûl_ …

The golden metal flowing into a form - simple, and yet so intricate. Hot, shining with inner light. Beautiful, delicate. Perfect.

Words of Power, living lines imprinted into the smooth surface.

A ring.

His Ring.

His power, the control over hearts and matter. A ring, more powerful than the crown of any kings. His standard, as he rides in force through the night.

His Precious.

 _Take me!_ The Ring seemed to call to Aragorn. _Take me! I can give you power unimaginable! I can give you everything you long for! They taught you you can't control me, but I sense the strength of your will. I will bow to you as to my Master, and obey you. You can do good with me, much good…_

No! Aragorn thought resolutely, imagining himself clad in dark iron and crowned with flames. I will not take you!

* * *

**The Númenorean**

“My father and mother should have stayed in Númenor where they met and married and where I was born,” the man was saying to the local lord with a dark sneer, “but they did not. Now I am here, and I rule this part of land. You can either accept it and be my vassal, or refuse it and die…”

They decided to leave Númenor to find power and wealth in Middle-earth. Their ships landed, and they embarked - tall and bright-eyed, in grey cloaks that glistened like silver in the sun. The people saw them, and were amazed… just to be forced to give up their land for the new lords from the West.

Sauron smiled. He was a true Númenorean, dark-haired and of piercing eyes. Sauron watched him from afar, and he liked what he saw… he wanted to have him, to make him his captain and leader of his armies.

“My lord,” he came to him with a fair face and sweet voice. “Will you accept this ring?”

And he did. There was something triumphant in Sauron’s thought at that, as if he would defeat Aragorn’s refusal, at least in his own mind, but his thought continue on its own, and he wasn’t sure he liked the direction where it was going:

Was it a coincidence that the Stoors fled from the shadow of the Witch-king’s realm in Angmar to settle in the Gladden fields, where the orcs ambushed and killed Isildur? Was it a coincidence that one of them found something at the bottom of a river, something sparkly, precious… 

There are no coincidences.

* * *

**Smoke**

Aragorn took a deep breath then, and carefully guided his thoughts away from Rings of Power, to something simple and innocent…

Sometime after his coronation, he was smoking his pipe, looking from a window, when he suddenly heard voices, unmistakably belonging to Merry and Pippin. He wanted to call to his friends, but then he got another idea. He smiled and hid behind a curtain.

"Wait, Pip! Do you feel it?" Merry stopped right under the window.

"Rain is in the air, I think. The air is unusually humid for this city…"

"Not that. Sniff!"

Indeed, in a moment the sound of sniffing could be heard.

"Pipeweed!" Pippin exclaimed. "I'm running low on my supply from Orthanc… It is really hard to get it in Gondor. Denethor didn't smoke."

Merry grinned. "We won't go until we get some!"

In that moment, something fell to his feet. He almost jumped in surprise, but then bent down and examined it. It was a satchel, and… "It's full of pipeweed!" he exclaimed, and looked up. He didn't see anyone in the open window, only the curtain moved slightly…

Pippin's smile reached from ear to ear. "Let's find Frodo and Sam! And raid the kitchen! This needs to be celebrated properly!"

And the party got started…

* * *

**Loss**

But Sauron was not prepared to let go of the thought on the Ring. Not yet…

The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. The battle of the Last Alliance began…

Isildur stood above the body of his father. Gil-Galad lay nearby in the pool of his own blood, his silver plate mail buckled and smeared with blood. A star, fallen into darkness. Aeglos shattered. Narsil broken. A black mace has smitten both. And Isildur stood alone. A small, desperate figure facing the Dark Lord.

A star rose from darkness - a lonely ray of light reflected in the shard of Narsil, as Isildur lifted it - despair, grief and anger in his face.

A ring of fire fell to the ground and the darkness dispersed.

The feeling of intrusion, violation. Never before did he know a feeling so shaking his very core as when Isildur put on the Ring. His Ring. It was a part of him, his power, and now someone else was wearing it.

Aragorn could feel his pain and confusion as the thought of his own Ring betrayed him, and finally he let go of it, retreating a little, but still fighting to not be pushed out of the palantír completely.

* * *

**Paths of the Dead**

Aragorn's own thoughts were dark now, and yet he found strength in them, as he found it on the Paths of the Dead, the strength for the whole Grey Company that followed him as a Captain, that rode after him to through Eregion and Rohan at his heart's wish and Galadriel's summon, the strength to summon the ghosts of the oathbreakers. Unknown to his though, their presence strengthened him as well, for there was a strength in thinking of "we" and not just "I", and the concern for others helped him to override his own fears, like so many times before, to not run before the ghostly footsteps and whispers, but remain firm and calm with the Dead behind their back. Dead army and words of a dead poet and seer to accompany him. And something inside of him was dying as well in fear that he will come too late, that he will fail.

The thought of the Path brought forth another memory – it belonged to Sauron, and it filled the palantír so slowly and quietly, gradually changing the picture that Aragorn almost didn't notice it until it changed completely:

The same army, the same men. Different time, though – they were still alive. They worshipped him, and he enjoyed it. To them, he was a great smith, maker of rings, and their voices sounded in consonance with praise to him. They bowed before his power, and their words dressed him in a mantle of glory. Isildur came to them, the light of fallen Númenor in his eyes. Intimidated, they gave an oath to him – the cradle of their tragedy. Torn between two allegiances, unhappy people who did not fully serve anyone, who did not know their place and refused to fight, hiding in fear. He laid the blame on Isildur for their fate…

* * *

**Returning home**

Aragorn needed a moment to gather his thoughts, his head starting to hurt from the strain. There was a memory of an early autumn long ago…

“Call me Hyarmendacil!”

“No, I am Hyarmendacil today!”

“No, me…”

The voices of the two boys sounded with agitation into the afternoon.

It was near the ruins of Fornost that the Dúnedain build their fortified settlement. The grass smelled sweetly. The mountains at the horizon had snowy caps already, but here, the warm autumn will last for a few weeks yet. A pregnant woman was weaving a basket in the shade of a great oak before the gates, and two boys lay in the grass, watching a snail as it made its way through its high blades - it seemed the dispute was settled for now. They were sporting a few purple bruises, suggesting it wasn’t a peaceful process, but now they just leaned contentedly at the warm bark in the late afternoon. The smell of roasting mutton was telling them that the dinner is almost ready. 

“Next time, I will be king Hyarmendacil and you will be a Corsair! I have been a Corsair two times in a row already!” one of the boys turned to the other again.

“No, next time we will defend Annúminas from the Witch king! I will be the king of Arnor!”

“No, I will!”

“I’m not a friend with you anymore!”

The woman looked up from her basket, and wanted to say something to stop the threatening argument, but the words froze on her lips, as she saw something that captured her attention. The boys followed her look, and saw a lone figure, walking down the road. They watched in silence for some time, and then, when they were certain, they ran inside the gates. “The Chieftain has returned! The Chieftain has returned!” Apparently they were friends again…

Aragorn smiled. After the long journeys in the far lands, when he could only look to the stars to orientate himself, it was good to be home, in the country he knew well, among his people, to walk the bumpy dust road leading here.

The boys ran inside the settlement to bring the news to all, and when Aragorn was almost at the gate, Ivorwen came out to greet him, followed by Dírhael. “You are limping…” she said accusingly instead of a greeting, and Aragorn smiled. “It’s nothing. I twisted my ankle on a mountain path a week ago. It is almost healed already.”  
  


She shook his head, and then tears welled in her eyes, as she opened her arms. “I missed you…”

“I missed you too, grandmother…”

Laughing, he ran to meet her.

* * *

**Heat rising**

Suddenly, the palantír darkened. There was smoke in it, and the shapes of three looming mountains, crowned with fire and smoke. Creatures of flame and shadows guarded the entrance, and Aragorn knew he is looking at Morgoth's fortress under the peaks of Thangorodhrim and his balrogs with their chieftain Gothmog. The evil emanating from it made him dizzy, but he resisted. A winged creature in the form of a giant bat flew across the sky, and then landed, turning into a woman with bloody lips.

"Thuringwethil," he heard someone say, and then another figure came into sight. It was Sauron as the Lieutenant of Morgoth. His dark armour was formed like the jaws of a werewolf, and a strand of his dark hair fell into his pale face as he wore no helmet. He looked threatening, but strangely handsome in the same time as he smiled, revealing his teeth.

Aragorn gasped as he saw the vampire approaching Sauron with a hungry expression, and she was naked in the next moment and so was he. They made love right there, two intertwined bodies in the throes of ecstasy. Dark hair and pale skin and bloody lips… Just from the sense of propriety, Aragorn wanted to withdraw, but stayed himself, for that would give Sauron full control over the palantír. A cunning move from him… Aragorn cursed and watched, feeling suddenly very hot. Desperately he tried to summon some cold memory, and without women…

* * *

**Still hot**

"There should be no exception from the good morals" Faramir said, watching the Tancol rise in the sky above Pelennor.

"Their morals are different, though," Aragorn sighed. "And the rules of hospitability say we should honour it."

"Have you seen what they want to sell here? Those pictures… they should not be published at all!"

"Really?" Aragorn raised his eyebrow. He took the book in question, and opened it at a random page. He stared at it for a moment, and suddenly turned red. "Ahem…" he coughed.

"So, how did it go?" Aragorn asked Faramir when he returned from the negotiations with the merchants from Rhún.

Faramir chuckled. "We had to make a pause so the interpreter could take a cold shower. But we decided on a reasonable agreement."

"And that would be?"

"The book can be sold, but can't be shown in the stalls. And it can be sold only to married couples."

Aragorn nodded, and then blushed. "Can I ask…" he took a deep breath, "… did you try it with Éowyn?"

"Did you and Arwen?" Faramir looked at his liege lord with an open curiosity. To a king, he would never give such a question, but Aragorn was both his king and his brother after he lost Boromir, and there were no secrets between them.

Aragorn looked away, suddenly finding a potted bay shrub very interesting. "Um… Some of it," he looked at Faramir to see is reaction, and when he saw the relief in his Steward's face, he added cheekily: "It was a very enjoyable night, I must say."

Faramir smiled. "Éowyn insisted we try it as well. She even dressed as a witch of Dwimordene."

Aragorn blinked. "Did you tell her that Galadriel is no witch?"

"I tried, but she's a very convincing witch. I'll try to work on my argumentation further tonight," Faramir grinned. "I wonder if she is as stubborn as I am."

* * *

**Getting colder - Yule**

No, not this memory! Aragorn groaned inwardly. He almost had the feeling he heard something like a chuckle in his mind, and he had no doubt it belonged to Sauron. Cold and without women, cold and without women, he repeated to himself. Concentrate!

"Strider!" Pippin approached him one day in the morning, while they were preparing for rest after the nightly march. "Uh… I'm sorry, I meant Aragorn…"

Aragorn smiled. "You can call me Strider if you want. I have nothing against that name."

Pippin blushed. "It is not that I want, if you understand me. It is just I am used to think of you as Strider already…"

Aragorn nodded in understanding. "A lot of walking awaits us yet," he said quietly. "On a long journey, I sometimes think of myself so as well," he smiled at the hobbit. "And I listen to many names, you can chose which you like best. But what did you want to tell me?"

"Well…" Pippin bit his lip. "I know we have to travel fast and inconspicuous, but… it is Yule today. Do Elves celebrate Yule?" _And Men and Wizards…_ were the unsaid words of his question.

"They do celebrate winter solstice. There was a feast in Rivendell, don't you remember?" Aragorn replied, pretending he did not understand where the question is heading.

"Ah. Right…" Pippin looked downhearted. "Good night then. Er… day," he said as he wrapped himself in the covers. It took him some time to fall asleep, though. He knew they are travelling during the night to not be seen, but sleeping in the light of the day when there was sun on the sky still seemed strange to him, and the first days he didn't sleep much, and was tired during the march. But now he was already getting used to it.

Aragorn remained keeping watch. Sleet was falling since the morning, making the day cold and unpleasant, but he just pulled the cloak closer to his body and a headless of the wind and weather, a smile slowly spread on his face. First he assured that the hobbits are all asleep. Then he looked around their camping place…

When he woke Gandalf for the watch, he spoke to him quietly, and the wizard smiled as well. Aragorn went to sleep first when the sun started to descend on the sky, and after he assured that that everything is prepared.

The hobbits woke to a song. When Pippin opened his eyes, it took him a moment to recognize it. It was an old Shire Yule song, and Aragorn with Gandalf were singing it, the others humming, not knowing the words. When Aragorn saw that the hobbits are awake, he smiled at them.

"Happy Yule!" he called.

The looked around in wonder. The sleet changed to a soft snow sometime during the day, and a soft layer of it was covering the trees around. There was a small evergreen fir, and it was…

Pippin gasped. "It is a Yule tree!" he exclaimed, and laughed. The fir tree was decorated with garlands made of cones and a roughly carved star was fastened to its top.

"You do celebrate it then!" he looked at Aragorn joyously.

"Only when I am with hobbits," Aragorn winked.

* * *

**Númenor**

Yes, that was the memory Aragorn was looking for, and it seemed it was not that hot in the room anymore. Somehow, he sensed that Sauron did not try to fight him anymore, not in the moment at least. He wasn't even sure if he summoned the next picture willingly, for it seemed too revealing and vulnerable…

Tar-Míriel, _Nimriyê_ \- Queen of Númenor. She had a necklace of red coral, like drops of blood against her marble skin. _Izrê_ \- beloved. So did the king call her, but the word sounded cold from his lips. Never did he call he that when they were alone, it was a name for those who were looking at the royal couple, to was away the bitter taste of the fact that she was his cousin. To himself, Sauron called her _Zimra_ \- Jewel, for she was hard in her beauty and multi-faceted, a jewel set into Ar-Pharazôn's golden crown like a bird in a golden cage.

She stood on the slopes of Minul-Tarîk - Meneltarma, from where she could watch the coves and inlets of the sea near the horizon. From the western cape of Nûmenor a cold wind blew and played with her silk dress. The smell of pine trees was in the air, and a crane flew high in the sky. She stood like a marble statue, a picture of frail endurance. She turned as he approached her, sensing his presence.

"He will not return, will he?" she asked calmly.

He did not answer.

"You sent my husband to death!" she accused him, but he merely smiled, knowing there was no love between her and her husband.

"He went to war against Ilúvatar to make him take back his 'Gift', as the Valar call it. I didn't send him anywhere."

"The gift of death… or the gift of life?" she looked at him sharply.

Sauron remained silent. He thought of the underwater caves concealed beneath the island of Númenor. Such were the thoughts and feelings of Tar-Míriel, as well. Hidden before the eyes of mortals under the layers of sea-weed and dangerous to venture into, full of treacherous and dark currents, and yet concealing unsuspected beauty: pearls like no human eye has seen.

"Men are such a riddle…" he muttered, following her gaze to the west, where in the distance the towers of Avallónë could be seen in a clear day, the haven and city of the Eldar on Tol Eressëa. But the day was not clear not – heavy clouds lay over the West, stretching above Númenor like dark, grasping fingers.

He thought it an hour of his triumph when the army of Ar-Pharazôn embarked the mighty ships, their swords sharp, armour glistening in the sun. In his mind, he could clearly imagine the confusion and helplessness upon the faces of the Valar - Manwë looking from his high throne on Taníquetil, asking Eru for advice, for such a things he would never even imagine: the Children of Eru turning against the Valar, the Children they should protect and guide. _Eruhíni dubdam Ugru-galad_ : the Children of Eru fell under the Shadow…

Sauron smiled at the deviousness of his plan, and looked to the west, curious himself what will happen, and what the Valar will do.

Never in his schemes would he imagine what they really did: nothing. Nothing at all. They did not punish the Children. Someone else did, and the punishment was terrible, unimaginable. They surrendered their rule of Arda for that moment. He felt it - felt a change in the very foundations of earth as the hand of Ilúvatar touched it, seized it, torn it! In that moment, Sauron knew fear, fear like never before. He saw it in his mind even before he could see it in real, but he couldn't do anything. He played with fire, and water came in answer - a dark, roaring wave under the wings of a storm, a crushing wall of water swallowing the cities and meadows of Númenor.

Númenor was no more. The Ulumúri sounded in the distance. And Ulmo wept.

She stood at the top of Meneltarma, and faced the dark wave. She breathed in. She breathed out. _Pûh_ – breath. Life. She breathed in. And with her last breath, she cursed Sauron. She breathed out. And then – she breathed in the dark water as the wave pulled her into the depths in and threw her against the rocks. She never knew it, but she was pregnant - expecting _miyât_ , twins, just like Elrond and Elros were. Sauron had great plans for them. Plants that will never be fulfilled.

Love, madness, death. Númenor was no more.

Then everything silenced. Night fell over the sea. The stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears. Númenor was no more.

_Êphalak îdôn Yôzâyan. Êphal êphalak îdôn hi-Akallabêth…_

Far away now the Land of Gift. Far far away now She-that-hath-fallen…

His fair body drowned there, broke on the underwater rocks. But his spirit lingered there, in the destruction. The wave crushed the lands, but once it ran over and the dark currents calmed, it looked almost like before, almost peaceful. He saw the white palaces and temples, the green gardens now under the surface. He saw the people in their watery grave, captured in the moment of their death. There was some minor noble, spasmodically embracing a pillar of the temple, and an old woman with a calm face as she was facing the end.

He knew the expression of his former physical form resembles more the horror in the face of the noble than the calm resignation of the woman. He has been a _nîph_ \- fool - when he expected the Valar to let Númenor to him after Ar-Pharazôn's insult. Now his fair form was lost. He could not be fair anymore, he knew it. His inner self now formed his appearance, and he had no illusions of it. But he did not want to rise from the watery grave of the once proud land. Not yet… He lingered there. It was so quiet under the dark surface. Almost as if nothing happened…

One midwinter day off the coast of Umbar, the crew of a fishermen's ship spotted a bottle with a note in it. The sailors managed to fish it out of the water with their nets. The note was simple, yet it caused a shiver in the men. There were only two words written in it : "Remember Númenor".

* * *

**Traveller**

Aragorn was shaken by the picture of Númenor's fall – the truth touching him more than any illusion Sauron could convey in the palantír. He could not erase the memory he saw, but he could continue the thought…

On the wings of the storm, out of the great wave, nine ships flew on the wings of wind. The Faithful, who did not fall into the King's folly, Elendil and his sons.

 _Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta_ … So Gondor and Arnor arise, and it were days of building and renewal, days of golden stories and open roads.

Aragorn smiled slightly, his heart eased, and before Sauron could summon the next pictures – the ones he knew will follow after the golden days, pictures of battles and destruction – he turned to his own memories, the warm and happy ones…

The fire was cracking merrily in the common room of Faramir's and Éowyn's house in Emyn Arnen. Ithilien, the land that thrived under the shadow of Mordor and the attack of Haradrim for so long, was beautiful again under the rule of the King and the Prince. Aragorn and Faramir were sitting in a soft chair before the hearth, sipping mulled wine.

It was late summer, and in the morning the sun shone and flowers smelled sweetly under the cypresses. But in the afternoon the weather changed, and a strong rain came with the cold wind from the North. It still rained outside, but they enjoyed the quiet evening together. It was not often that the King and Steward could get away from their duties for a few days. Éowyn joined them after she put her little daughter to bed.

"Will you tell us about your journeys, my lord?" she turned to Aragorn as she sat down.

Aragorn smiled slightly. The Rohirrim never travelled far beyond their own borders, but Éowyn had great interest in the far lands. "The world is broad and alien. What journey would you like to hear about?"

Éowyn thought for a moment. "Where is the farthest that you have been?"

Aragorn took his time to reply. "It depends where from," he said finally. "If you measure the distance from Rivendell, it was far Harad to the south, or Hyarmen as the Elves call it, but from here, probably distant Rhûn to the East… "

"That far?" Éowyn looked surprised.

Aragorn smiled slightly, looking modestly at his feet. "Your brother didn't call me Wingfoot without a reason."

"Have you seen Oliphaunts there?" she asked.

"In Harad, yes," he nodded.

"And what about the Were-worms of the Last Desert?" she continued the questions.

Aragorn's pride diminished slightly. "Were… worms? No, I'm afraid I haven't seen such a thing. Maybe I haven't been far enough…"

"How is it there?" Faramir asked suddenly, interest in his face as he came to his lord's help. "In Rhûn, I mean…"

"In Rhûn? Um… what I remember most clearly is the food. It gave me quite a stomach ache…" he chuckled. "Otherwise, the people are like everywhere else – they have their joys and their troubles. It was just me who was a stranger, and did not understand much of their life. And they can make almost as good fireworks as Gandalf did, they fill them with something called 'gunpowder''.

Éowyn was quiet for some time, thinking about it. But then, she couldn't miss the opportunity to ask another question. "And what are their horses like?" - the horse breeder spoke from her.

Both Faramir and Aragorn hid a smile. Aragorn tried to remember, for he didn't pay that much attention to horses in that time. "Well… They are mostly smaller than the horses of Rohan, but light-footed and quick. In statue they are similar to Éomer's steed Firefoot." He looked at Éowyn to see if he answered the question to her satisfaction. It seemed he did.

For the rest of the evening, Faramir with Éowyn asked him about the distant lands, and Aragorn spoke about his travels, and that strange delight of exploring high mountains and deep canyons, speaking with different people...

He almost forgot about that evening already when several weeks later, Faramir handed him a manuscript, bound in leather.

"What is it?" he asked as he looked at the cover.

Faramir smiled. "I have written down you're the tales of your travels," Faramir smiled. "You would never get to it…"

Aragorn shook his head. "In that, you are right, my friend…" he said, admiring the pages filled with neat handwriting.

* * *

**Love**

He was winning… he felt Sauron's presence retreat from the palantír, wavering. He used the moment, and encouraged, he remembered another memory, one of his most precious ones…

"I love you…" she whispered.

His heart jumped in joy at the tiding. But his face was sad.

"Oh Arwen, I am so sorry…"

"Shhh, my love. Don't be sorry for bringing light into my life again."

"Love to me will bring you only grief at the end, and grief to your father," Aragorn sighed.

Arwen sighed as well, and came closer to him. Her smell was the most beautiful scent he has ever known. She touched his cheek, and he closed his eyes with a soft moan.

"I am at peace with that fate," she said quietly. "And I don't want you to worry for it. I love you, Estel. I would rather live one life with you, than have immortality alone."

Aragorn looked at her like hit by thunder. "Your… immortality?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "As a daughter of Elrond, son of Eärendil, I have a choice. I am not afraid of it. What I am afraid of is the fate of Mithrellas."

"The wife of Imrazôr of Dol Amroth, through whom the elven blood entered his line?"

Arwen nodded. "To leave quietly into the night, so I don't have to watch my husband and children growing old. To take my love to the undying lands, a faded memory of a life I can never have anymore…" she shivered.

He took her hand into his, and kissed it gently. "You will not have to do that… What will we tell to your father, though?"

She sighed, and grief was in her face now. "The truth. But we will not remind him on it when he can see us. He loves us both as his children, and so will we be before him."

"At the end though, our love will bring only grief, whether to us, or to him…"

"Maybe," she said, "but it is worth it…" Then she whispered into his ear:

"Icicles melting:  
My spring has come today,  
The warm sun of love."

And under their feet, elanor flowered.

* * *

**What is love?**

The thought of love… Aragorn thought that will be the last blow to Sauron, but it seemed the contrary – Sauron gathered his strength again! Another vision filled the palantír:

A beautiful woman dancing at the fire, graceful and slender like a deer. Seducing lips, hair like ripe corn flowing freely down her shoulders in the rhythm of the dance. Something free, something wild is in her eyes. Valacar watches, mesmerized by the dance.

"That's my daughter," Vindugavia says. "Her name is Vidumavi…"

Osgiliath burns. The kin-strife damages Gondor like a hurricane. Barley rots in the fields for men fight over the right of succesy. Castamir the Usurper thinks his blood is purer than the future king's. All of that, because a king fell in love with a woman of the Northmen, not of Númenorean blood. But all blood is the same, all blood is red, and it smells the same, flows the same from the wounds…

 _You see_ , Sauron points to him, _you didn't need me to fight among yourselves. Love was at the beginning of the kin-strife… It was a kin-slaying, just like in Alqualondë: do not take excuses in the mortality of Men, that unlike Elves, they would die anyways. Your history is stained with blood just like the hands of the Noldor Exiles, settling in Nevrast. All that for love…. And what is love?_

Another image came to him, a ship sailing in the unknown waters. Upon the prow stands a woman, clad in black, holding a white cat in her arms. Nine black cats are on the deck of the ship and climbing the sails. Queen Berúthiel, set upon the wide Sea by her husband. A swift uplifting rush of wind drove the ship farther from the shore _. Did you know that if you die in a lock room with a cat, it will eat your carcass_ , Sauron remarked dispassionately. _A dog wouldn't. I always liked dogs more. And werewolves._

Aragorn shivered, and Sauron continued: _The line of the Ship-kings ended with the first of them, and continued with his nephew, for Tarannon had no heir. That is love: a fleeting, unreliable thing that gets cold with years…_

Aragorn tried to protest. _No, love is not that! Love is…_

* * *

**Fatherly love**

The first thing he registered was the scent of soap and herbs (sage and agrimony, his mind automatically named the well-known herbs), and warmth - wonderful warmth spreading in his body. A bath - his mind connected the things with some effort - he's in a hot bath! But where… how did he got into one? After the sensation of warmth, a less pleasant feeling came - the stinging of water in his wounds. He gasped, his body tensing.

"Easy, my son…" a soothing voice reached for his soul, and made him relax. "Yes, that's right. You are safe… Now open your eyes, Estel. Look at me…"

The last thing he remembered was terrible cold and pain. A gale. He was in the mountains. The orcs pursued him, and he broke his leg and couldn't get down into the hidden valley. He was freezing…

With great effort, for his eyelids felt like lead, he opened his eyes, and looked at his father.

Elrond smiled at him. A cup was lowered to his lips, and he took a sip of the liquid. It was sweet and tasted of honey and summer. Miruvor…

He managed to drink a few sips, but then a coughing fit seized him, and he could not catch his breath for a moment. Elrond held his hand on his chest, and the tightness he felt there passed soon. He had no strength to keep the eyes open any longer, but he slipped into sleep with the feeling that he is safe and his father is with him.

Because of Elrond's love, he lived…

His father.

* * *

**Fathers and Sons**

There was a bountiful harvest that year, and celebrations of its end made all Gondor dance and sing. A flute sounded in the warm evening.

He celebrated his own harvest. He held his son in his hands... So beautiful, so perfect… He had Arwen's eyes. The House of Telcontar will continue, a tree taking roots in the fertile soil of Gondor. Future.

His son.

Fathers and sons…

Suddenly the hands of an old man appeared in the palantír. Aragorn knew that sight, for that was what the Stone of Minas Tirith always showed, and had to be directed away from that image with will. But this time, there were no flames around the hands, and he could see Denethor's face, as he was looking into the palantír, in the very place where Aragorn was standing now. He recognized the face of Ecthelion's son, although age took its toll on him. Sorrow more than age, maybe - his face was anguished, the pain of a father losing his favourite son…

Which one, though? The loss of Boromir, Captain of the White Tower and his Heir cut deeply. He always loved the sharpness of the Sword before the preciseness of the Bow… But this pain was for losing the second son as well, Faramir, the Captain of Ithilien Rangers. The pain of realizing his love for him too late, and it was even worse. His features were hard, though. Firm and determined he went into the battle of wills with the Eye of Mordor. His will never bent to it, never surrendered. Despite that, his will was not strong enough to discern truth from lies. Only his ashes lay in the House of Stewards, the fire of the Eye burning his spirit at last.

But small voice sounded in Aragorn's mind, saying " _what if?"_ His head spun already from the strain of using the palantír, and he couldn't discern if the voice belongs to Sauron or to himself. _What if Denethor would not succumb to the despair of what he saw in the Seeing Stone that day? What if he would survive the War of the Ring, and remain a Steward of Gondor? Would he accept the return of his old rival Thorongil, claiming the right for Kingship? Would he refuse your claim for the throne, just like Pelendur refused Arvedui ? Would you try to convince him… fight him? Or would you turn back to the North?_ He shook his head, having no answer to that. He thought about what Pippin has told him of Denethor. No, he would not accept his former rival as his king… _It was me who showed him what he saw then. I made it easier for you…_ Now he had no doubt anymore – the voice was Sauron's. But he was telling the truth, and that was more scary than anything else.

To diffuse that fear, he reaches for the first memory that comes to his mind, many memories in quick succession to offer Sauron no chance of twisting their course.

* * *

**Mentors**

He remembers Glofindel as he taught him to fight with a sword in Rivendell.

"To learn how to use a sword, one must first master when to use a sword," he told him often.

"Who taught you to use it?" he asked him once.

The golden-haired warrior laughed at that. "I had a lot of time to figure it out myself. I was not a warrior in Aman, but I had to become one in Middle-earth. Me and Ecthelion often sparred together, and gradually we became the best warriors of Gondolin. But you don't have that much time, youngling, so listen to me carefully!"

He just learnt his name. Aragorn. He was not Estel anymore, he was Aragorn. He was not a son of an unknown Dúnadan, but of Arathorn, son of Arador. He was the son of the Dúnedain Chieftain, the direct descendant of Aranarth, who was the first Chieftain after the Northern kingdom was lost to Angmar, a heir of kings. He shook his head in disbelief.

"Are you… earnest?" he asked Elrond first, for he found it hard to believe his words.

But there was pure sincerity in Elrond's eyes as he watched the young man before him, not a child anymore.

The memory of Gilraen, his mother, comes forth, but it is not him who evokes it. Sauron finds it in his mind, and the memory shows only grief and pain: " _Onen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim_ ".

'I gave Hope to the Dúnedain, I have kept no hope for myself.'" A flower dying, wilting without hope like without water. The time has taken away her youth, her love, her hope. She never saw her son bear the crown. She will never know of the kingdom. In the ice of winter, she never lived to see the spring…

No... not this memory! Quickly away from it, before Sauron can use it...

* * *

**Meduseld**

The first person he saw when arriving to Meduseld was a woman. She sat near the fire in the middle of the room. Her clothes were simple, but made with great care, and the brooch adorning her cloak was the work of a master of his craft. There was an air of silent grace and strength around her - if she would be born in the body of a man, she would become a great warrior.

He bowed to her in gondorian manner, and she gave him a long, piercing look.

He did not awert his eyes, and she lifted her chin. "Welcome to the Golden Hall of the Kings of Rohan, stranger. What brings you here?"

"My name is Thorongil, my lady. I came looking for a place where my sword could be put to good use," he said in broken Rohirric.

"You are in such a place, Thorongil," she answered in fluent Westron. "I am Morwen, the King's wife. Have you ever served in cavalry?"

Years later, when he entered that hall again, it seemed both foreign and familiar to him. He noticed the look of a woman, watching him from the shadows behind the king's throne. Her eyes were of piercing sky-blue, and an air of strength and grace was around her. For a moment he thought he is seeing Morwen Steelsheen again, as she was in her youth. So Aragorn met Éowyn, the granddaughter of Morwen, the Shieldmaiden of Rohan.

* * *

**Leathery Wings**

The thought of wings came to Aragorn as a reaction to the thought of Éowyn, of powerful eagles and flying dragons. Then he saw a nest on a high mountain, and there were nine eggs in the nest. He saw the shells cracking, a beak appeared in the crack. Then he saw Sauron, stroking the newly hatched creature almost lovingly despite its unpleasant smell. He fed it a piece of bloody meat, and when it stretched the tiny leathery wings, his posture was one of pride. So the Fell beasts were born…

In the core of their being, they were the memory of Morgoth's dragons and Manwë's eagles, meant to proudly sore high above the stratus of clouds. In Sauron's eyes, they were beautiful, even though they reminded a vulture more than an eagle, and their will, subdued to the will of their rider, was ever turned to one desire - to kill and maim, to seek death and feed on it. Messengers of bad news like the Crebain, and the bad news themselves. And first of them, the strongest of the hatch, the steed of the Witch-king, fed by Sauron's hand.

The line of Eorl proved to be its bane - the line of dragonslayers, for Fram, son of Frumgar who killed the dragon Scatha was an ancestor of Eorl the Young. What an irony, that it was a daughter of that line who ended the life that started there, high upon the cliffs of the Mountains of Shadow, in a nest protected by Sauron himself. And what a pity - Aragorn could feel Sauron's grief for both the Witch-king and his steed.

* * *

**Cousins**

Aragorn felt a pang of sorrow, even though it was someone like the Witch-king who Sauron grieved for. He knew how it feels to loose someone...

Smoke from a little campfire rose between the elms.

"Hold still!" Halbarad's annoyed voice could be heard.

"I'm trying to!" Aragorn's voice sounded weakly. "You are terrible with the needle!"

"You are the one careless enough to get injured, so don't complain!"

There was silence for some time then.

"Aragorn? Aragorn! No, you can't sleep now! Talk to me!"

"Sorry…" came a slurred reply, followed by a relieved sigh.

"You know I don't mean it seriously, don't you? I'm just trying to keep you awake…" _To keep the fear of losing you out of my mind, so my hands won't shake when I try to stitch your wound… trying to keep it cold and impassionate like the sky in winter…_

"Of course I know that, cousin…"

"Denlad will bring horses soon, and then we will get to the others and take care of that wound properly."

"W-Where will we go?"

"Archet is closest from here. Well, the inn is not the best, but at least they have a roof and relatively clean beds."

Aragorn smiled wryly. "There wouldn't be any decent wine, would there?"

Halbarad's blood on the Pelennor fields looked like wine, red wine seeping into the soil... The same field where the Witch-king has been defeated. Yes, Aragorn understood Sauron's grief, and he he had an unpleasant feeling that Sauron will use it against him.

* * *

**Possibilities**

In the bleak landscape of Black Breath, he was looking for Faramir. He could not find him. Faramir was too far gone, and Aragorn's strength was not enough. Too far, too deep, to dark… He followed him, and became lost himself. Somewhere far ahead, in the distance, he finally glimpsed Faramir running to his brother, embracing him. There were Denethor and Finduilas as well, watching from afar. He turned away, for there was no return for Faramir anymore. But he could not find the way out…

Now Aragorn saw himself. He was riding at the side of Gandalf with Pippin, and Legolas with Gimli, and the Dark Gate loomed above them, heavy and terrifying. He saw himself through the eyes of another, and it was a contorted and unpleasant image – so the Mouth of Sauron saw him. But he also could sense pride in the dark Númenorean, and it was terrifyingly familiar, for it was a pride on his ancestry, and he felt the same when he learnt his true name and lineage.

Then he saw his sceptre – the Sceptre of Annúmians, which Elrond himself gave into his hand the symbol of his kingship in Arnor. But the picture changed, and he saw another sceptre, the one that was a model for the Sceptre of Annúminas – the Sceptre of Númenor. He saw it in the hands of Ar-Pharazôn, sailing to the West to challenge the Valar themselves. A chill ran through him as he realized that Ar-Pharazôn's hands on the sceptre are so similar to his.

* * *

**Creation of Dwarves**

It seemed to him he is losing the hold on the palantír. He expected Sauron to assault him with more dark thoughts and memories, and gritted his teeth. But instead, Aragorn saw something else, so different from what he expected that he wasn't sure if the memory was intentional from the side of his opponent. He saw a workroom, dimly lit by the light from the forge. A muscular figure came into view, and there was an aura of power around the man – if it was a man. He seemed to be… no, not unreal. More real than anything else, actually. He leaned down, and there was a statue he was working on, from stone, or maybe bronze? It seemed so real, so alive in the light of the fire… And suddenly Aragorn knew he is looking at the creation of Dwarves through the eyes Sauron, when he was still Aulendil, an apprentice to the Vala Aulë, master of craft and smithing.

Then it was dark, and it was getting darker still, as Melkor's darkness filled Aulendil's heart. He was already Sauron Gorthaur, a Lieutenant of Angband, when something stirred in the darkness beneath the mountains. Despite his will, he was fascinated by the work of his former master. He just watched, without letting him know of his presence as one of the seven Fathers of Dwarves sleeping under the Mout Gundabad opened his eyes and watched around in wonder. And his first look was not at the stars of Varda, but at the gems in the deep womb of stone, from which he came.

As if Sauron himself was surprised by that thought, he quickly dispersed it, and the thought on Durin was changed into the shape of another Dwarf, tortured and weak, lying in the darkness of his dungeons in Dol Guldur. It was Thráin, the father of Thorin Oakenshield… Aragorn saw the destruction of the dwarven kingdom under Erebor by the dragon Smaug, he saw the Sindar hunting the Petty Dwarves from sport, he saw Húrin killing the last of their race Mím, the traitorous underground rat who betrayed Túrin and Beleg - death, death to the Dwarves, Sauron's thought seemed to tell, as if wanting to prove something even before himself.

* * *

**Under the surface**

Aragorn could feel that something is wrong with the last memories that Sauron showed him – they were a ruse, an attempt to hide the truth even before himself – the truth that was respect to his old master Aulë and his creations, uncovered without the influence of the Ring. But now, something below the surface started to show again. A memory not far in the past...

The Eye and the Mouth. The Master and the Messanger.

"The Orcs are in the position, Master. The last company arrived to Udûn yesterday."

"What about Elessar's army?"

"They will be at the Black Gate tomorrow."

"Good. You will show them the mithril coat that orc… Shagrat… brought. Make them believe we have that halfling as a prisoner, and a terrible fate awaits him if they don't capitulate. Capturing him is only a matter of time, after all. We will deal with that when that Northern usurper is dealt with properly. In his arrogance, he dared to challenge me, Sauron the Great!"

"He will suffer, my Lord. I will make sure of that."

"Good. Now go. You have your orders."

As Aragorn watched the scene unfolding in the palantír, he could feel Sauron's disgust of it, and a hidden respect before the 'Northern usurper' who dared to challenge him.

* * *

**Stripping**

Now Sauron was showing him everything, the moment of his greatest fear and shame even… His head spun when he heard in his mind a scream, distant and muted, but terrible. It was Morgoth's scream when Ungoliant assaulted him, but he did not hurry to his lord's aid, despite the pang of joy at his return from the captivity in Aman. He was afraid… Just like he was afraid before, when Tulkas Astaldo dragged Melkor out of Utumno, and that careless Vala was _laughing_ – laughing all the time. That scared Sauron more than anything else, and made him despise the Vala even more – but he didn't dare to do anything, just hide in the deepest dungeons with the Balrogs and cower in fear as the Powers above sounded their voices like the horns of victory, like battering rams pounding into the darkest and deepest doors of Utumno.

He never admitted it to any of his servants, but he was afraid of Shelob, dwelling on the borders of his land. She reminded him on her ancestress Ungoliant too much, and every time his thoughts led to her, he remembered Morgoth's scream in Lammoth, and the pure horror in that sound, and he shivered. She still lives, his thought sounded in warning to Aragorn, and she is a real danger. Beware!

Barad-dûr was crumbling. Fire and water. Present and memory. Loss of body in the water that flooded Númenor like a crushing fist of the Valar... Loss of soul in the fire, the same fire that was his ally in forging the Rings. Like he felt his body drowning, suffocating under the heavy mass of dark waves, now he felt the piece of his soul bound to the Ring melt in the fire. The wrath of the waves left him naked and terrified. Hating the water, he took a form of fire. Now that fire was his undoing. Agony. Indescribable agony. And then... freedom.


	5. Conversations

"Freedom?" Aragorn blinked, unsure what he was seeing and feeling anymore. His head spun with memories and words and images, and it was hard to discern which ones are his own anymore. He had to grasp the table that the palantír lay upon to steady himself. Through the dizziness, Sauron's voice broke through and sounded in his mind – the words were surprisingly gentle, soothing the headache rather than increasing it.

"Listen to me, Aragorn. Please, listen."

"I have no time to listen to you! Arwen is dying!" he cried out in reply and his voice sounded with exasperation.

"And you are looking for a cure, I know…" Sauron replied. "I have the answers you are looking for."

Now Sauron had his full attention. "What do you want for them?" Aragorn asked coldly.

Sauron did not reply for a moment. They did not fight anymore. Aragorn could feel his presence in the palantír, but did not try to push his will out of it, just like Sauron did not struggle to take control over it – he never did, Aragorn realized. Sauron just fought him because he tried to push him out, he did not fight for mastership of the stone like he did before, only for Aragorn's attention.

"Just listen to me… please," he replied finally.

"It seems I have no other option," Aragorn retorted wryly, with increasing impatience.

"I'm sorry for that…" Sauron replied, and the words sounded surprisingly genuine.

Aragorn noticed that as well, and sighed softly. "Very well. What is this all about?"

Sauron was silent again, as if gathering his thought – as if it this talk would be too important to him, and he was preparing for it for years. Aragorn could see a pale picture in the palantír – the memory was unclear and blurry, but it seemed to be a happy one. There were several figures at work in it, and the power emanating from them suggested it were Ainur.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," Sauron spoke quietly. "Arda was young, and the sky was blue. The clear lakes in the mountains gave birth to small streams that found their way through the mountain gaps. Over the river and through the woods, we could walk for days and greet the rowans and hawthorns, or follow the river littered with smooth stones until its mouth to the sea, where the clouds gathered to pour their rain above the land. We were builders and gardeners of the new-born world.

But I was not content with that. My lord Aulë was content with building the face of Arda together with his brothers, not taking more from it than he needed for his works. It was new. And already it was… unorganized. Unpredictable. I wanted more control… The mesmerising towers of mountains and depths of abysses. It felt like infidelity to let the plants and wind and water erode them, to create and then let all creations on their own without a ruling hand. Arda needed to be ruled, classified and ordered, it needed a firm hand, the hand of a ruler.

That was when He came to me. His words were wise. He understood my thoughts, understood my desires. He led me to a point from where there was no turning back. It was like a cliff, and I was afraid, looking back to where my master Aulë worked his forge. If he would have looked at me in that moment, if he would just call my name, I would have turn back. But he did not. We stood on a cliff, and Melkor gave me his hand.

We jumped…

Yes, I followed him, abandoning my old master. What I wanted was order. There is order and law even in destruction… But the cascade of events that started with a small hobbit, led to my destruction instead. Barad Dûr fell for the second time, and it will not be rebuilt anymore. Years will pass, and slowly, plants will cover its dark stones. Dogwood will blossom on the ruins, and people will forget… Maybe some new evil will come, who can say? For Arda is marred, and the Children of Ilúvatar can't live in peace for long. Others paint their tales upon her canvas now. May it be."

"Why?" Aragorn asked suddenly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I… want to tell you what it meant to me…" Sauron said slowly. "Maybe I, for some reason, came to believe that you could understand. Ironical, isn't it?"

When Aragorn didn't reply, he continued anyways.

"I'm sure you remember the day when my Ring was destroyed. A new day dawned for you. But for me, it was night again, a long night of the soul. I was free of the ring, but in that freedom, I was nobody anymore. It took me years just to remember my name, to gather my thoughts enough to see clearly. Still I thank you, Heir of Isildur, you and your companions. You accomplished what you forefather could not. He could have freed me, but instead, he let himself be enslaved…"

Aragorn still said nothing, and Sauron continued.

"It was like burning alive… But cleansing in the same time. I think it was the same for the creature… Gollum."

Now Aragorn nodded slowly.

"And the hobbit's names were Frodo and Sam, right?" Sauron smiled a little sadly.

"Indeed…" Aragon looked surprised by the fact that Sauron would be interested in the names of the hobbits.

"You did a good job in turning my attention to yourself. Sam and Gollum were fighting in the very heart of my realm, and I did not see it…" he paused. "I am glad Samwise Gamgee didn't kill him…"

"You are?" Aragorn couldn't help himself but ask.

"Yes, I am… although it took me years to realize it. It saved me from being a slave to my own Ring again. "

Aragorn nodded slowly, but he was getting impatient. "Please… could you just tell me how to cure Arwen? I will return and listen to your tale if you do. Just please, tell me…" Desperation sounded from his voice.

"You won't…" Sauron sighed almost inaudibly.

Aragorn blinked at the resigned certainty in those words. "I can give you my word of that," he said.

"Do not give a word you cannot keep," Sauron answered with another sigh. "Well, I guess I cannot want more from you. Watch, then…"


	6. Revelations

The surface of the palantír brightened again, showing a picture that wasn't there before. Aragorn watched it so intently he almost forgot about the presence of other mind in the palantír.

He saw a dim room. A gang of seven men danced in the light of a few candles, in the thick smoke of incense. Their eyes were unfocused, their movements like those of a madman, but still there was a strange and remarkable coordination in the dance. Onions and blackberries lay upon a coarse table in the middle of the room, arranged with a precise nicety right next to cut out snake tongues. A liquid was boiling in the skin of some animal. No, it was not water. One would even say it's the boiling liquid that glows in the dim room. It was thick and red, almost like tomato soup.

Then… the dance stopped suddenly.

He saw Arwen's necklace. It was an intricate pendant in the shape of two birds, that he gave her himself as a gift for the anniversary of their betrothal. It was submerged in the poison.

Aragorn shivered, and wanted to run away from the palantír immediately as he realized that even now, Arwen still had that necklace around her neck.

"Wait!" Sauron stopped him sharply. "You do not know where they are!"

"I don't need to know that!" he retorted. "I must remove the necklace, right now!"

"That will not help…" Sauron said regretfully.

On that, Aragorn returned to the palantír. "What are you not telling me?" he asked sharply.

"I'm telling you everything, you just don't want to listen," Sauron retorted. Then he continued more calmly. "It will be of no help to remove the necklace now. What you need is an antidote. And only they can give it to you."

"Who are they?"

Sauron hesitated with an answer. "They are… _Umaswadi_ , _"_ he said finally.

"Who?"

"Poisoners. I believe you saw one of their poisons at work before…"

The memory of Bregor's death returned with disturbing clarity. Aragorn rubbed his temples tiredly. "Maybe... But they did not look like those you have showed me…"

"Oh, those were just simple robbers. The Umaswadi sold them poisoned arrows."

Aragorn bit his lip. "Were they meant for me?"

"No," Sauron laughed shortly, mirthlessly. "I did not know who you are in that time, nor did they. They were just meant for any Dúnadan, as some rumours told that the Heir of Isildur is among them," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if talking about someone else.

"So they served you!" Aragorn exclaimed.

"Once, yes. They served me… they still think they do."

"And they don't?"

"They serve just a memory… believe just what they want to…" there was bitterness in Sauron's voice. "Even if I would speak to them, they would not believe me."

Aragorn was quiet for a moment, realizing the truth in Sauron's word. _He_ would not believe he is speaking to Sauron if he would not recognize the touch of his mind. Without the Ring, he was different…

"But _I_ need to speak with them. Where are they?"

"Here…" was the surprising answer.

Aragorn wanted to ask what he means, but in that moment, steps sounded on the staircase. He turned sharply, but the door did not open. The person behind them knocked. Not slammed the door open as he half-expected, but knocked… He placed a hand on his dagger.

"Come in!" he called.

The door opened, and Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief when not one of the Umaswadi entered, but his Steward Elboron.

"My lord," he bowed, and there was urgency in his voice that made Aragorn tense again. "There is some man in the throne room, claiming he has a cure for the Queen. He wants to speak to you in private, and refuses to tell anything to anybody else."

Aragorn cast a quick look at the palantír – its surface was dark and dead now – before replying. "Tell him I will grant him an audience… here."

Elboron's look was confused, but he did not gainsay his king, knowing time is precious. He bowed and wanted to leave, but Aragorn stopped him: "And Elboron! Make sure somebody removes the Queens's necklace! Do not touch it, though!"

The Steward paused at that, but then he nodded and hurried down the stairs.

Aragorn remained alone. He took a deep breath. He wished he would have taken his sword with him – he only had his dagger… He looked into the palantír again, but it was dark and quiet. He sighed, wondering if he did well to choose this place, but it was too late to change it now. He straightened and forced himself to appear calm when the door opened. A guard opened them, and then stepped aside, allowing a man to enter the room.

Aragorn did not speak, waiting for the other to begin as the door closed. They faced each other – a King and a man in dirty robes. Aragorn recognized him – he was one of those he saw creating the poison, in some ritual to please the false image of a Lidless Eye. He did not let anything show on his face, though. He waited, wondering if the only chance to save Arwen stands before him, wondering what the man will demand.

"I have heard the Queen has been ill of late…" the man began, but Aragorn's patience ran out at that.

"She has been poisoned," he said coldly, "by you."

If the man felt any surprise at the revelation, he didn't let it show. "Ah… it seems we can go directly to the matter at hand. That will save us time, at least."

"So what do you want for the antidote?"

"Ah, the antidote…" the man looked at Aragorn slyly. "What makes you think there is one? I certainly don't have it with me, you see…"

Anger shot from the king's eyes, and the man found himself retreating a few steps without even realizing it. "B-But I know where it is!" he stammered.

Aragorn froze. "Tell me."

Now the man smiled, realizing again his advantage. "Yes, I'm not that stupid at to bring it with me, so you can take it by force. Instead, I have something else…" Not leaving his eyes from Aragorn, he took out a little vial with dark-red liquid.

The king had an unpleasant feeling looking at it, but he didn't let anything show in his face. "A poison…" he stated evenly.

The Umaswadi nodded contentedly. "For you. Drink it, and I will tell you where the antidote is."

Aragorn couldn't say he didn't expect it. "If I drink it, it will be of no use to me."

"Oh, on the contrary! You will have 24 hours before the poison starts working. 24 hours of life to save the one you love. Am I not generous?"

The realization sank into Aragorn's stomach like a cold stone. He will do it. He knew he will do it for Arwen, but his rational mind was still trying to find a way out. "How can I know you will hold to your end of the bargain?"

The Umaswadi's eyes glistened. "You have my word… if I get yours that you let me leave safely." He smiled slightly. "I could just tell you the place when I get out of the city… But I will tell it to you now. I just ask your trust for mine. It's not much to ask from a man that's going to die, isn't it?" he smirked.

But the last words were too much. In a blink of an eye, Aragorn had the dagger placed at his throat, his stormy eyes clouded with anger.

The man gulped. "I… apologize," he stammered, but then gathered himself again. "But if you kill me, you will never know where the antidote is." When he felt the pressure of the dagger on his throat lessening, he sighed with relief. "You know my conditions."

Aragorn took a few steps back. He was quiet, not looking at the man. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"I accept," he said finally.


	7. Poison

He didn't tell Arwen anything. She was still sleeping… silken hair spread softly on the pillow, her chest rising and sinking with calm breath. Colour returned to her cheeks already, like a pale rose opening in the dawn. The Umaswadi did not lie. The antidote was in the place where he told him, a small phial with a murky, colourless liquid. There is enough just for one, the Umaswadi warned him just before he left, but he didn't need to say that – Aragorn knew it will be so in the very moment he drank the burning dark-red concoction.

He kissed her closed eyelids. He watched her face for a long time. He loved her so much. Every day with her was a precious gift, and he always knew the last one will come. He only hoped it will not be that soon… He sighed. He thought of his mother. Such short was the time Gilraen had with Arathorn. He and Arwen already had many years, yet it still felt too short.

Quietly, he stood up. It was time now to say farewell to both love and light. He could feel the poison cursing in his veins more intently with every moment. He did not want Arwen to see this as the first thing when she wakes. She had to recover, to get strong again. She had to live…

He kissed her on the lips, savouring their softness and sweet taste. A sharp pain that shot through his body reminded him he doesn't have much time. He stood up and with a last wistful look at Arwen's sleeping form, he left.

He didn't know where to go; just that he has to get there quickly before somebody sees him. He didn't want anybody to see him like this, see him dying in pain. Sweat beaded on his brow, and the world started spinning dizzily. Not much time… Not much time before… the pain! He gritted his teeth through it, waiting for the spasm to pass. He had to get away… if not from the pain, then from people who could see him suffer, his dear ones that he did not want to burden with such memory. The pain shot through him again, more intense this time, and when it passed he found himself curled on the floor, sobbing. He got up. Made a step. Another…

Somehow, he found himself in a chamber and closed the door behind himself. Then he sagged helplessly on the floor, curling into himself as the spasms ran through his body like red-hot iron, like fire instead of blood in his veins. He bit his lip to blood to not scream in pain. It hurt so much… and he did not want to die… did not want to be alone! Dimly, he knew he made the decision, but it was hard to bear when he felt cold fingers reaching for his heart. He could hear its erratic beating in his ears, the only sound he could hear, painfully loud. It slowed. Slowed…

Instinctively, he wanted to fight, escape from the grasp of death, but he knew it will just prolong the agony.

_Shhh…_ came suddenly a voice, strangely soothing. _Do not fight it. It will just hurt more if you do. Relax…_

_Sauron?_ Aragorn bit back another scream.

_Shhh… easy… I know how that feels. It is only worse if you fight. Trust me…_

Aragorn was beyond reason now. He was only glad to not be alone in that hour, even if it was his former enemy who was with him. He tried to listen to the soothing voice and relax despite the pain. He took a deep breath. The last one… He tried to calm himself. He could feel the pain abating, his body going numb and cold. He could not hear his heart anymore.

A surge of panic flared in his mind when he realized that, but he could not move, could not do anything, and it hurt when he tried.

_Easy…_ _I am here. It's all right. Do not be afraid…_ the thought was like a caress, and he calmed.

On the border between life and death, he could see Sauron, smiling at him. There was a door. Sauron was holding it open for him. He approached it. It was dark - the light was behind him, but he did not look back. He entered the door.

There was a sea behind the door, and a grey boat waiting for him. He entered the boat, and was carried through the sea, but he had no memory of the journey. He saw only the light, slowly beckoning him to the shore. Then the grey rain-curtain of this world rolled back, and all turned to silver glass, and then he saw it. White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise. The boat sailed in a different direction, though…


	8. Mandos

Somehow, the white shores faded from his sight. He was in a maze of corridors, full of grey mist.

A shadow of an elf passed him - a pale shadow, a ghost… He shivered, and retreated from the ghost, reminded at something, though he could not name it. Some unpleasant memories… from another place and time. The dead elf did not seem to notice him though.

He passed several of them - shadows in the mist.

Suddenly he saw someone that seemed alive. "Wait, please!" he heard himself calling, but the voice didn't feel like belonging to him. He just knew he is lost in these dim halls, and he desperately wanted to have someone to show him to way – way to what, he did not know.

The elf turned around, looking at him with wonder. "Who are you?"

"I… I don't know…" he whispered, and the voice sounded scared to him.

The elf frowned. "You are a Mortal…" he said. "You do not belong here. You should be in your own Halls before passing beyond the Circles of the World. How did you get here?"

He blinked, feeling a rising horror. "I don't know…"

The elf's look was sympathetic now, and he smiled at him slightly. "That's all right. You will remember…"

He tried. He tried hard to think about who he was, but the name didn't come, nor any memory of his life. His head hurt from the futile attempts to find the memory. The elf waited patiently.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry." But in that moment, the thought of himself seemed suddenly unimportant to him. He was more interested who the other is, and what his tale is.

"And who are you?" he asked.

The elf smiled, and bowed slightly. "I am Belthrion from Falas. I was a rope-maker once, and my wife was a weaver."

"How did you get to Mandos, if I can ask?" he asked carefully, somehow feeling that the identity of the other is a key to his own.

"Oh, it's all my brother's fault. He always was the black sheep of the family. He decided to fight against Fëanor."

"In the kinslaying?" he didn't quite understand.

"Oh, yes. There. I followed him, of course, and was killed. Surprisingly."

He remained quiet, thinking. "Why can't I remember my name?" he asked quietly.

"You need to find out who you are. The truth about yourself. Then you will remember…" The elf watched him for some time, and then asked: "Are you afraid?"

He nodded.

"What are you afraid of? Is it death?"

To that question he shook his head with certainty. "No. I'm afraid of something else."

"What is it?" Belthrion asked gently. "Do you know that?"

He stood there for a moment, looking down and trying to sort his thoughts. "I'm afraid…" he said finally, slowly, "I'm afraid of causing pain to those I love…"

Belthrion smiled. "That's where you should begin."

With that, the elf left him. He remained standing in the corridor and looking around, wondering what the elf meant. Only then did he notice the tapestries.


	9. Tapestries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another of the skippable chapters, this time describing various scenes depicted on the tapestries in Mandos.

They hung on the walls, the endless corridors full of them. Some of them were faded, the colours dull and dusty, but at a closer look, their beauty was visible, and the scenes they depicted were astonishing, just as their rendering. The weaving style was like nothing he has ever seen before: the individual threads seemed to have a life of their own, the pictures in the tapestries changing as he passed them, the tales unfolding before his eyes. Many of them depicted events he could not place in the history, or events that seemed too ordinary to be recorded by any chronicles:

A woman baking bread, the scent of the golden-brown loaf she was just taking out of the almost real.

A Sindarin artist in the Grey Havens, forming a delicate clay statue, a heated kiln waiting to accept the fragile beauty and harden it while a light rain falls outside.

Somewhere among the sand dunes in Khand, an old Variag man dies, bitten by a snake.

Twin girls herding geese, singing as they walked barefoot on the fresh spring grass.

A sleeping Elven maid, and a warrior donning his armour. He leans above her to give her a kiss before he leaves and closes the door. "We will meet again…" he whispers. And they do - in Mandos.

He stopped by an ancient tapestry - there were two women on it, and he looked at the tapestry, he knew their names, knew what event it depicts. There were two Valier -Yavanna and Nienna in the moment when they stood up from the darkened ground, finally giving up the attempts to revive the dead Trees.

"Their beauty is destroyed forever…" Yavanna sighed.

"Dark times are coming," wept Nienna. "Dark and evil…"

* * *

He stepped away, overwhelmed by the feeling of despair from the old tapestry. Shivering, he took a few steps to another one, that seemed to be shining with gold, attracting him with its light and relaxed atmosphere. In the moment he looked at it, he knew whom is it depicting, he knew all threads of fate that led to the scene, he could see in his mind what is going on in the picture – such was the might of Vairë's tapestries. He smiled slightly at the scene:

**Ice Skating**

The mallorn leaves were just turning gold. Galadriel was looking out of their talan, and sighed slightly.

Knowing his wife, Celeborn approached her. "Is something amiss?" he asked quietly.

She gave him a small smile. "Oh no, nothing…" she paused. "Just… there is no real winter in Lórien…"

Celeborn raised his eyebrows in surprise. "But it's you who made it so…"

"Yes, I know," she chuckled. " I just remembered Helcaraxë."

"Uh… Helcaraxë? As in… 'the desperate crossing in hardihood and woe'?" Celeborn couldn't help himself but sound somehow sceptical.

"Well… sometimes it was fun."

"Fun?"

"Yes. Like that time when Finrod carved two seal bones, and bound them to his feet…" she chuckled at the memory."

"He did what?"

"Caught a seal. We could only hunt and fish, as there were no plants to gather fruits from…"

"After that."

Galadriel smiled at the memory of Finrod in his lavender tunic, complaining that Maglor couldn't see him now and be envious. "He ran on them across the ice. Ice skating, he called it."

"Ice skating." Celeborn repeated, not sure what he should imagine. "Did you try it as well?"

"Of course I did," Galadriel smirked. "Who else would show Finrod the pirouettes?"

* * *

He smiled and stepped further, curious what more he can find. But in the moment he stepped away, he forgot the scene depicted in the first tapestry – the next one was all that he had attention for. He almost did not realize he is not the only one who is looking at it…

**Thingol and Melian**

There was an image of Melian and Thingol, standing silent in the woods as the pale flowers of niphredil blossomed at their feet, and golden corn ripened - the corn of Valinor from which she later baked the first lembas. They were lost in each other's eyes.

And the same expression was in the eyes of a silver-haired elven lord, who watched the depiction of himself and his queen. He never let his eyes of the tapestry, looking at Melian's face with the same love that could be seen in the face of his woven picture.

There were other tapestries around - The Dwarves working in the thousand caves of Menegroth, the creation of Nauglamír. Melian welcoming them in their halls, although she told him earlier that her heart warns her. He did not listen. His own death by their hands, caused by his own pride… But now, he did not seem to mind the other tapestries - he only had eyes for this one…

And in the same time, Melian was waiting for him in the gardens of Irmo in Lórien, for her love was enduring through all the ages of Arda, just like the love of her daughter who long ago passed behind the circles of the world. She met several of those she knew in Doriath, looking for healing of fëa or hröa in Irmo's garden, those who came through the Sea and those who came through Mandos. But the one she awaited so wistfully did not come yet. She was patient, though…

* * *

He stepped away, somehow feeling like intruding upon the scene. It reminded him on something, but on what, he did not know, and se he continued down the corridor, going from one tapestry to another and observing the scenes they depicted.

**Galadriel**

White dominated this tapestry - there was a white figure in the background of ice and snow. It was Galadriel: younger, determined, proud, leading her people through the Helcaraxe: shifting glaciers and ice crystals, and dark, bottomless waters… Ice queen, words came to his mind when he saw her there. But the spring of Doriath melted the ice… He smiled slightly. Despite all expectations, she married a Sinda. Not that he would be in a position to judge the marriages of several Ages old Elves, but Celeborn was just the right man for her, in his oppinion. He could be one of the Úmanyar, as the Noldor called the Elves that did not reach the Blessed Realm, but he was wise and knew when to argue with her and when not, and he was mighty of the Elves of old, just like the lords of the Noldorin Exiles. All dreams about power and own kingdom she had in her youth were not that important when she opened her hands and heart to him. She had her own realm in Lothlórien, and a loving husband. At the end, she realized that was all she ever really wanted.

* * *

**Thorondor**

There was an eagle on the tapestry - the King of eagles. But the nests of the giant eagles of the First Age were now empty, destroyed under the Sea, and only the underwater creatures of Ulmo knew where they lay. Where is now mighty Thorondor? There was no song of his end, no tale that would tell of his fall. He flew away, returned to his lord Manwë in Valinor, and nests upon the peaks of Taniquetil. Where are the mighty wings, dancing among the clouds? Only a tapestry bears the memory that such majestic strength once soared above Middle-earth.

* * *

**The Trees of Gondolin**

The towers of Gondolin aspired above the morning mist; austere towers of steel and cement and limestone, sturdy as cliffs and delicate as silver rods.

Isil and Anor circled in the sky above the hidden city, Tilion mooning over Arien as she ever evaded him with her golden ship, their paths an eternal dance of unrequited love.

Turgon watched them, and in his eyes was the light of Aman, for he was mighty among the Eldar of old, and he remembered the light of the Two Trees for which the Moon and Sun were just a pale reflection. Like a thousand splendid suns shone Laurelin before the Darkening of Valinor, and Turgon remembered that light. In its memory he wrought the images of the Two Trees in Gondolin - the golden Glingal and silver Belthil.

Under those trees, two of his captains liked to sit. Glorfindel leaned on the cool gold of Glingal, watching Ecthelion doing the same with Belthil.

"Let us take lunch under our trees," they talked among themselves, when Turgon could not hear them. From there they watched the city when they were off duty, and after Eärendil was born, he often came there with his nurse Meleth to listen to their stories.

Gondolin was preparing for the celebration of Midsummer, but instead - an attack came. From the two trees, it was Belthil that fell first, its silver melting in the fire of balrogs, cut down by their flails, falling to the ground like tears. Glingal lasted longer, resisting the heat and flames, but finally, it fell as well, and the trees of Gondolin were no more.

But Tuor and Idril escaped with their son, and new hope was born for Middle-earth. That hope bore the light of the Two Trees, the living light trapped in a jewel.

* * *

**Scales of Beauty**

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." Eöl defended himself.

The Dwarves were looking at him suspiciously. "No, it's not."

"Well… not among your people, maybe."

"Not among your, either. Maybe among the Atani."

"All right, then… it was a love on first sight! Are you content now?"

The Dwarves looked at him blankly. "You should have looked once more. She doesn't even have a beard."

* * *

**Darling, can I keep it?**

Goldberry discovered the door a little while after they moved into the house Tom build - no, sang - for them. When she first saw him, she did not take him too seriously, but slowly, inconspicuously, love grew between them and one day she realized she cannot be without him anymore. He sang a house for them, cosy and homely. Now the air smelled of rain when she danced out of the door - it just rained and the sky was blue and wet like fresh laundry. The pebbled path led through the garden, and as she followed it, she discovered a narrow door into the side of the hill.

When she approached it, she felt a strange cold emanating from there, and shivered slightly. But all cold was driven away by Tom Bombadil's song, and he was coming from behind the house with long strides, his song echoing into the distance and making the forest resonate with it.

"Hey-ho, my darling! Do not open the door! It's not for your pretty eyes!"

She gave him a stern look. "What's behind the door?"

"Um…" Tom actually blushed. "A Barrow-Wight…"

"A Barrow-Wight?"

"I drove him out of his barrow, and it seems he found a place to hide in our cellar…"

"Then drive him out of there as well! I don't want any such creatures in my house or cellar, is that understood?"

"Yes my darling…"

"Good." She turned and went back to the house. "I'd just make more tea."

* * *

**Exile**

"That is not fair…" Celegorm sighed, looking out of the window of Formenos.

Huan looked at him questioningly. It was night already, but his master didn't sleep yet. A single candle burned upon his table.

Celegorm smiled slightly at his hound. "At least you could follow me here. I was afraid for a moment that Oromë will want to take you back when we sent to this unjust exile."

Huan barked shortly, expressing his opinion on the matter.

"We can't even visit Aredhel…" Celegorm continued in his talking, and the hound proved to be a good listener, never interrupting him.

"So what are we supposed to do?"

Huan had no answer to that, and eventually, Celegorm extinguished the candle and went to sleep.

When he awoke in the morning, there was something laid on the table, and Huan watched him expectantly.

Celegorm frowned. "What is this? A lute?"

Huan barked.

"You think I should learn to play the lute?"

Huan barked again.

"Well…" Celegorm took the instrument into his fingers. "I guess I could try that. There's nothing better to do here anyways…"

Several moments later, Maglor almost jumped at a noise that came from Celegorm's room. "What is he doing there?" he turned to Curufin.

"I think that he is singing…"

* * *

**The War**

The last tapestries he passed brought a smile to his face, but as he neared this one, he instantly knew it is different. Darker… heavier… It seemed to weight on the wall heavily, not with the material of the weaving, but by the scene depicted on it:

He saw the trees of Mirkwood burning, the fire reflecting in Thranduil's armour, the deadly glittering of the arrow nocked in his mighty war-bow. Battle raged there, a battle that seized the whole Middle-earth.

He saw Dol Guldur, towering upon the hill of Amon Lanc, casting a long shadow into the once green woods. Black squirrels lived in the woods under the shadow, and spiders weaved their webs.

Slowly, he stepped to the next tapestry, for the scene seemed to continue there.

In a next tapestry, he saw the fortress defeated, the towers of the abandoned ruins tearing like paper as Galadriel walked there and the light of Aman shone in her eyes, beautiful and terrible.

He had a strange sense of recognition as he watched it, but as he stepped away, the sense passed, for the next tapestry was from another time and place:

It was showing Maedhros, hanging in his torment upon Thangorodrim. Fingon just found him, and was watching with sadness and helplessness in his eyes. It was before Thorondor showed up, before he could know that he will. He was prepared to kill his best friend to save him from the torment, and it was clear in his eyes.

That look was hard to behold, and so he hurried past the tapestry.


	10. The Fountain

Suddenly he came to a crossing of corridors. There was a fountain, and a beautiful stone carving of the Valar upon it, with Manwë and Varda on the top, the water streaming from their connected hands.

He stopped to admire the statue of Oromë and his steed Nahar. It was an impressive statue, and Aragorn didn't wonder that the Wainriders feared this Vala more than anything. At his side was his spouse Vána the Ever-young, and she had the grace of a cat around her, of a panther or tiger.

His look returned to the statue of Oromë, though. He was looking at the Hunter as he appeared ages ago, when Arda was young, and he rode freely under the stars. He saw him as the awakened Elves saw him, in the dark times when Melkor created the first Orcs in his dungeons, and Urug was a word for anything that the Firstborn Children of Ilúvatar were afraid of: a dubious shape or shadow, or prowling creature. In such a time, Oromë found them, riding on his steed Nahar.

The Vala dressed in furs reminded him on the Beornings, and he wondered if they have ever met, and what's the origin of the skinchangers' line. And in the next moment, he wondered how does he know the Beornings, and if it could be a trace to his own name, but it still evaded him.

Nienna was depicted near the foot of the fountain, kneeling. She looked so real that he wanted to touch the marble eyes to assure they are not wet with tears.

Then he smiled at the depiction of Yavanna, for again there was something familiar about it: he recognized the one at her side. It was Treebeard, Fangorn, the Shepard of Trees, and beside him stood another Ent, and her form suggested it was an Entwife - Fimbrethil, Fangorn's beloved, the statue on the fountain the only way how they could be together now. The long fingers of Fangorn's hand were wrapped around a rock, and he was reminded on the force that destroyed Isengard. The memory seemed so close… He knew he has been in Isengard, and he knew he has seen it destroyed. What was he doing there, though, he could not grasp.


	11. Thorongil

With that feeling of being close to what he was looking for, he turned around and chose another corridor, hoping the tapestries will reveal more to him. He passed several of them, but he forgot what they depicted as soon as he turned away, not knowing the scenes from his own experience.

But then he passed one, and he thought he recognized the scene depicted in it. He remembered the day when they arrived to Meduseld, and Théoden son of Thengel rode to war against the power of Isengard. In the same day, Erkebrand, Elfhelm and Grimbold defended the Fords of Isen against the odds of Saruman's hosts. The moment in the tapestry depicted Grimbold's camp, surrounded by orcs, his men preparing to break through.

And the next one depicted a scene during the Long Winter, when Helm Hammerhand took refuge in the mountains, in the fortress that will bear his name in years to come. He was on the tapestry, blowing his horn, dressed in white like a vengeful spirit of the snow that covered whole Rohan, prepared to sneak into a Dunlending camp and kill the enemies with his bare hands. He has seen this before… But where? There was a carving in Meduseld… He used to look at it during the boring hours when he stood as a guard in the long hall… Yes, he used to know this!

Intrigued by the images of Rohan, he looked around, and saw another tapestry – and with surprise he realized it is him, riding as Thorongil at the side of the Marshal of the Mark, warrior among warriors. He was Thorongil! That was his name! He remembered that moment – they rode from Dunharrow that morning, and the horses waded like mighty ships through the geen sea of high, sweetly smelling grass. The plains of Rohan stretched far and wide before them, the weather calm and sunny. It seemed almost surreal that in such a nice day, they were going to fight and kill. They rode into a battle with the Dunlanders, and it was the first time he saw those people, or heard Dunlending spoken. In that battle, he killed his first man…

Only years later did he learn to speak Dunlending. Somehow, it was easier to kill a man when he didn't understand his language.


	12. Maedhros

He sighed. He remembered his name, but it did not feel right – as if something would be missing. He shook his head and looked around in hope to unravel the mystery, maybe with the help of another tapestry.

Instead, something else captured his attention. An elf passed him, noble and tall, with his hair red like fire. He didn't seem to notice Thorongil, though.

"Where are you? I'm coming for you! Do not be afraid!" he was calling. "I must find them…" he muttered to himself. "I need to find them…"

Feeling a strange sense of compassion, Thorongil stopped him. "Forgive me, my lord, but whom are you looking for?" he asked.

The elf looked at him. "I'm looking for two elflings. The servants of my brother have left them in the woods to starve. Please, have you seen them?"

Thorongil gulped, recognizing the elf he has seen in one of the tapestries, hanging by his right hand from the cliffs of Thangorodrim. "No, my lord Maedhors. I have not…" he replied, and sighed as he saw the look of anguish upon the noble face. It was the face of one used to lead, but also of one who has suffered much.

Thorongil thought, the fragments of history he has learnt as a child coming forth in his mind. He knew which two elflings Maedhros was looking for. If Elurín and Eluréd really died in the woods of Doriath, they should be here, in Mandos, as well… A sudden decision came to him. "I will help you looking for them, my lord!"

The elf looked genuinely surprised by that. "But I don't even know you…"

Thorongil shook his head, unsure what to tell to the eldest son of Fëanor. He had the feeling he doesn't know himself either, that he is missing something… "I am… just a sellsword, my lord," he said finally.

"A sellsword? But I cannot pay you… I don't know where my money is…"

Thorongil smiled. "That is all right. I gave up that career already anyways…" Yes, he did. Somehow he knew it was the truth.

Maedhros hesitated for a moment, and then smiled as well. "Then I accept your help. I don't know how long I have been looking already, but you are giving me hope again. Will you come with me?"

"Yes," Thorongil replied simply. "I'll come with you."

They wandered the halls aimlessly for some time. They passed several elves that Thorongil did not recognize. No Men, though. He was the only Man in these halls, and it was a disturbing thought. He did not know why he ended here, and so he rather focused on searching for the two elflings.

They came across some children after a time that evaded their perception. The elflings were playing hopscotch. Their faces were focused on the game, and did not perceive their surrounding - just like children anywhere. Even here, in Mandos… Thorongil felt sorrow at that sight. What happened to them that they had to die so young? Orcs? Raids? Maybe even… kinslaying? He glanced at the Elf beside him. It was even possible that they fell by his hand. A cold shiver run down Thorongil's spine at that thought. The elflings did not notice the intrusion. They were too intent on the game, lost in their own world. Maybe they even didn't know they are in Mandos.

Maedhros watched them for several moments, and then shook his head. No, Elurín and Eluréd were not among them…

They continued further and the mist in the halls thickened. The pageants on both sides of the corridor depicted a forest – deep, dark, endless until where the eye could see. The corridors formed a maze, the crossings and blind braches so numerous that he lost count of them after some time. Even the air had the damp, mossy smell of deep woods in it. If there wouldn't be stone tiles under their feet, Thorongil would not be so sure that they somehow didn't get into a real forest.

When he looked at Maedhros though, it seemed to his the Elf _was_ in a real forest. His step was cautious, as if something dangerous could jump from between the dark trees in any moment.

"Elurín! Eluréd!" he called, but only echo returned to them.

"They are not here," Thorongil turned to him suddenly.

Maedhros scowled, and the brief anger passing his face would force many to step back.

Thorongil did not move. "They are not here," he said again. "We are not in Doriath."

"What do you mean?" Maedhros was still scowling. "It must be Doriath! I remember this place. Two of my brothers died here…"

"It was not here, Maedhros. We are in Mandos, and the spirits of those children were innocent. They would not be left wandering in a dark wood where they died. It is you who is tormented by the memory, not them. Come," he continued gently, "we will get away from here…"

Maedhros still remained standing where he was, and so Thorongil extended his hand to him. Hesitantly, the elven lord took it, and Thorongil led him back the way they came from, wondering how long it will take them to find the way through the maze. But when he turned, with surprise he found out that there is no maze – just a single short corridor with the tapestries of a forest on both sides. They passed it quickly and found themselves at the fountain with Valar again.

"We are in Mandos…" Maedhros whispered, as if it was only now that he realized what Thorongil was saying.

"Yes, we are…"

"But I need to find them…" the Elf murmured softly, sounding a little lost.

"Maybe there were already reborn," Thorongil suggested quietly.

Maedhros shook his head. "No, they can't. They…" his voice broke. "They have to forgive me…"

Thorongil said nothing, but laid his hand on the Elf's shoulder. "Then we will find them."

Maedhros just nodded shortly and followed Thorongil, whose stride was suddenly long and purposeful, but if he was really that confided or only acted so for his sake, Maedhros could not tell, nor did he care.

They walked for some time, passing the various tapestries, each telling an own tale. Thorongil glanced shortly at each of them, but did not stop. If there was any pattern to the scenes depicted, he could not tell it, and the one he was looking for eluded him. It could be hours that they walked the misty corridors. It could be days… He walked quickly past the tapestries, and his head spun from the speed the pictures were changing, for each that they passed seemed to pull him in – he was in a daze, but never slowed. Maedhros did not speak for all the time, following him almost blindly.

Finally Thorongil seemed to find what he was looking for. He smiled slightly, and with obvious relief stopped before a tapestry, waiting for a moment until his mind was able to focus on the picture.

Maedhros looked at it carefully as well. There were two little boys – like, and yet unlike those he was looking for. He voiced his doubts immediately: "These are not them."

Thorongil shook his head slightly. "Don't you recognize them?"

"No…" Meadhros breathed out.

"Look carefully."

He did. The tapestry seemed to move before his eyes…

"Elrond and Elros!" he exclaimed suddenly.

Thornogil nodded with a smile.

"But they are not Elurín and Eluréd…" Maedhros looked at him in confusion.

"No," Throngil confirmed. "But they have forgiven you. You could not find the little brothers of their mother in the forest even though you tried. You and your brothers were the reason why their mother flew away with the Silmaril. And yet they have forgiven you. It is not the forgiveness of Elurín and Eluréd you seek… They have never even seen you before they died, they did not know who you are. They are not here anymore. You need to let go of them…

Now Maedhros looked at him carefully, with a piercing look of one of the mightiest among the Eldar of old. "I know you…" he said suddenly. "You are a child of Eärendil and Elwing!"

Thorongil shook his head slightly in confusion. "I am a Mortal… that much I know."

"But you are from their line…Don't ask me how I know that, but I do."

"Yes…" Thorongil whispered suddenly. "I am a descendant of Elros, and a foster son of Elrond. I am not their child, but I am of their line…" He looked at Maedhros as if seeing him for the first time. "And I have another name. Not Thorongil, but… Aragorn! Yes, I am Aragorn!" he smiled. "Aragorn…" he repeated again. It sounded just right on his tongue. It was his name.

A slight smile played in the corners of Maedhros' lips. "Thank you for showing me this tapestry, Aragorn. But now… I need to think…"

Aragorn nodded. "I will leave you."

Maedhros nodded thankfully, his sight already lost in the tapestry. As Aragorn walked away, he could see the Elf touching it slightly with his fingertips, whispering something to himself.


	13. The Black Blade

Wandering in the Halls of Mandos aimlessly again, Aragorn came to a pedestal. A broken sword lay upon it, but it was not Narsil. The sword was dark, and the sharpness of the shards seemed almost cruel. There were bloody stains near the hilt, but nobody bothered to clean them. Aragorn came closer to see the inscription upon the pedestal. It read: "Gurthang". The sword that killed Beleg and Glaurung the father of dragons, and at the end, it killed Túrin Turambar by his own hand… Always he thought it is lost, buried under the earth or the sea. But it was here, in Mandos - to be reforged again, maybe?

Next to it was a helm - the famous Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin, forged by Telchar and given by Azaghâl the Dwarf to Maedhros for the saving of his life when he way waylaid by orcs upon the Dwarf-Road in East Beleriand, and through Fingon it came as a heirloom to the House of Hador. Aragorn took a step back in awe. Maybe Túrin Turambar, the slayer of Glaurung, will put the helm on and wield Gurthang again once, when Melkor breaks the Gate of Night and the Last battle comes. Until that day, they will wait here.

He turned away and did not touch the black blade.


	14. Fëanor

There he saw him. Such was the flame of his spirit, lightening the mist around with a blood-red, living light that Aragorn had no doubt about whom he is seeing.

"Fëanor…" he stated simply, for he didn't know what title or courteous phrase he should use. Name was enough. Name said everything…

But the Spirit of Fire did not look at him. "Makalaurë… Where is Makalaurë?" he was muttering.

"Your son, Maglor?" Aragorn bit his lip. "I do not know…" There are some rumours in the Age, some people have seen a mysterious harper in a tavern or at the seashore, powerful in mind and body and with scarred hands, but nothing certain. It could also be Daeron - or both of them, though nobody has seen them together. "I am sorry…"

But then Aragorn realized Fëanor isn't listening to him, doesn't even see him. He appeared like holding something, but there was nothing in his hands. "The light of my lamps, so bright, unquenchable… It will help many to find the way in the dark. Do you see?" he smiled suddenly.

Aragorn slowly shook his head, even though the question didn't belong to him.

Suddenly Fëanor gasped, and spread his hands as if he would drop the lamp. "Fire…" he gasped. "There's fire in it! The ships burn! Oh, what did I do? And you helped me, my sons! Amrod! Amras! Don't argue between yourselves and hold the torches! Maedhros! Do not stand there just so! Oh, what did I do? It's my fault! Oh, Nerdanel, it is my fault, isn't it?" he turned at Aragorn, but didn't perceive him. "But I just wanted freedom... to live without the Valar, whether Light or Dark. I wanted to save Middle-earth, not condemn it…" he wept then.

A woman watched him from afar, and there was an expression of great sorrow upon her face. "My son…" she whispered.

Fëanor turned sharply after her voice, but didn't seem to see her, either. He was trapped in his own world.

She sighed. "Such greatness… a flame so bright…" she moved as if to touch him, but never did. "All the strength of my fëa I gave to you… a flower that fades to give everything into one seed. Such a loss… I'm so sorry, my child, I could not stay with you. Maybe it would be different now if I found the strength… the strength to go on and be both mother and wife… Indis could be a wife to Finwë, but she could not be mother to you, my son. I am sorry…"

Aragorn just sighed, and shook his head, finding it too painful to watch any longer.

"Do you think he is mad?" the woman turned to him suddenly, and Aragorn almost jumped, for he didn't think she can see him.

"No, he's not," she replied to herself. "He is trapped in his memories…"

"Is there a way to help him?" Aragorn asked quietly, remembering how he was able to help Maedhros – he hoped he did, at least.

"I tried to reach to him, but he does not even see me. Maybe his father could do it… I know there was love between them, despite his second marriage to Indis."

There was an unvoiced sigh in her words that Aragorn recognized. "What about you, lady?" he asked hesitantly.

"I… understand him. I left him alone, when his heart desired a family, a wife and more children that I couldn't give him. The Valar asked me, when he sought their consent. They asked me, and I said yes, knowing I will not leave Mandos anymore. But he died as well… I've been avoiding him since then. And I am not that sure anymore I do not want to return." The sight, unvoiced so far, came now, and it was unhappy and tired.

Aragorn bowed to her wordlessly, and left her, for he could not do anything. Now though, he could somehow recognize the other sons of Fëanor among the shadows of Elves wandering in the Halls.


	15. The sons

"Mother?" a call from one of the other hallways could be heard. Aragorn saw an elf very similar to Fëanor both in face and stature.

"Your mother is not here…" he whispered sadly, because he knew Curufin is looking for Nerdanel, separated from her husband and sons by their oath. He felt pity for her in his heart.

Curufin continued down the hall, looking for Nerdanel. It seemed everybody was looking for someone here, someone they could not find. Suddenly Curufin stopped before a tapestry. "It was my knife…" he said slowly. "My knife that cut the Silmaril from Morgoth's crown. Angrist, given to be by Telchar… Beren took it, but it was mine…"

Then he saw Caranthir. He was just sitting there, with his face hidden in his palms. A tapestry was behind his back, depicting a woman clad in simple green and brown clothes of the Edain. Her look was fierce, and she was holding a sword in her hand.

But Caranthir was not looking at Haleth, who has long ago passed beyond the Circles of the World. He was looking at the tapestry across of him. There was an elven woman, looking across the Sea… waiting for him - his wife. Still she is waiting, and he will not come…

In that moment, another elf passed him, a dark-haired Noldo of proud and kingly bearing. Caranthir stared at him for several heartbeats, as if trying to connect the face with a name. When the Noldo was almost gone, he suddenly stood up. "Fingolfin!" he called, but the Elf-lord did not turn and continued down the corridor with measured step. "I hate you, Fingolfin!" Caranthir called after him, but when his voice faded, the elven king was already gone.


	16. Reunion

Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board. For some, the tide brings them to the shore, fulfils the wishes. Others lose the ship from sight, never seeing it again. For the Fëanorians, the ship was called Vingilot, and it was out of their reach in Middle-earth. But here, in Valinor, it reached the shore every day, while bright Eärendil rested from his travells. Maybe that was the reason why the Lord of Mandos held them in his halls... Darkness, fog and shadows filled the halls where they walked, and years were roaring and blowing like cold draft in the hallways, rushing around them without bringing a change.

Aragorn watched them for some time, passing each other in the halls, but not seeing, not recognizing. The father did not recognize his sons; the brothers did not recognize each other… He sighed, and wanted to turn away, when Maedhros entered the corridor. The red-haired Noldo froze, as if seeing a ghost.

"Father?" he whispered in amazement.

Fëanor looked up at that word. "Father…" he echoed it, as if testing the sound. Then he looked straight into Maedhros' face. He blinked. Then, the expression of joy slowly spread across his face. "Nelyafinwë!"

Maedhros smiled, and the halls of Mandos seemed to brighten with that smile. He walked to his father, but Fëanor was faster, and soon had his son firmly in his embrace.


	17. Conversations with the dead

There was a living elf in the Halls today. He came there with Námo's consent, to speak with his brother. Unlike Aragorn, he was not looking around with awe and reverence. The halls and tapestries were apparently familiar to him as he passed them with a certain step, as if knowing his way around. It was clear the golden-haired elf has spent some time here as well.

"Aegnor!" he called softly when he came to the fountain with the statues Valar.

Nothing happened for several moments. Then, an Elda came from one of the halls hesitantly. He had a mane of spiky blonde hair, and in his eyes was a burning flame, though it seemed dull in this moment. "You called me, brother?" he asked quietly. "It's good to see you again."

Finrod, for that's who the living elf in Mandos was, just sighed. "Oh brother… Yes, I called you. Our mother misses you so much. Father and Galadriel and Angros as well… Even Amarië and her parents… we all wish you could return to us."

"You know why I can't," Aegnor looked at Finrod seriously.

Finrod sighed. "Yes. I know… I just wish it there could be some other way…"

"There isn't. I can't live without her. Tell our mother and everybody else that I love them… but I love Andreth above all, and she passed beyond the Circles of the world. I cannot follow her, and so I will remain here until the world is remade, until Anor and Ithil fade and Varda's stars turn black."

Finrod just nodded; apparently this conversation was not taking place for the first time. They remained silent for some time.

"So… how is mother?" Aegnor asked after a moment.


	18. Conversations with the living

Finrod was sitting alone at the fountain, Aegnor already having departed into the endless halls. Suddenly he raised his head. "I know you have been watching…" he stated. "Come here, you do not have to hide."

Hesitantly, Aragorn stepped into the free space. "I'm sorry my lord," he said. "I was just intrigued to find someone who's alive in these halls. I did not mean to overhear your conversation…"

Finrod smiled slightly. "There's nothing secret in it. He died in Dagor Bragollach, defending Dorthonion. I was just _astarmo_ – a bystander, witness of their love. She was an Adan, and he was an Elda, but I understand why he fell in love with her. You are fascinating, do you know that?"

Aragorn looked to the ground and sighed as he thought of the unhappy love of Finrod's brother Aegnor and the daughter of Men Andreth. The thought of Arwen, giving up her immortality to be at his side, hit him again with full force – it was years ago, and yet it still seemed like the greatest wonder to him.

Finrod probably saw it in his face, for he didn't wait for his answer. "You do not know…" he gave the answer himself in a gentle voice. "But my sister saw it, didn't she?"

Aragorn remembered as Galadriel welcomed him in Lórien. She dressed him in white, and told him to wait at upon Cerin Amroth… He nodded slightly. Then he realized something, and looked at Finrod in wonder. "You know me?"

"Námo informed me that I might run into the king of Gondor during my visit. I must say I was intrigued…" Finrod smiled, and his eyes grew distant. "You are the first Mortal I have met since my rebirth. I still remember how found Bëor's people at the bank of a small stream. They awoke in Hildorian, and crossed the mountains. Just like the Sindar, they loved the woods and the riversides. They called me Nóm, which means 'Wisdom' in Taliska, for I seemed wise to them…"

"And the Dwarves called you Felagund… I know how it feels, having a lot of names, trust me…" Aragorn remarked, for he felt strangely at ease around this powerful Elda.

Finrod laughed, and that sound was like golden bells. "Do you also know how it feels to have that many cousins?" he asked with a smirk. But suddenly he stopped laughing as his look fell on Aragorn's hand. "That's my ring…" he said in awe.

Aragorn immediately understood what Finrod means, and raised the Ring of Barahir. "It was inherited in my line for ages," he explained quietly.

"I should have realized… you are a descendant of Beren…" Finrod whispered, his voice shaking a little, as if he would see not Aragorn, but the friend that he died for before his eyes.

"Yes, through many generations," Aragorn answered. Then he put the ring off and offered it to Finrod. "It belongs to you, my Lord, with the deepest gratitude of my line…"

Finrod shook his head, and closed Aragorn's hand around the ring. "Keep it… As a gift from a friend."

"Thank you…" Aragorn didn't know what else to say.

"No, _tyenya_. I thank you," Finrod replied sincerely.


	19. Conversations with the Lord of Dead

Before Finrod and Aragorn could speak longer, they were interrupted by an elf that came to the fountain. Aragorn knew him – it was Belthrion, the rope-maker from Falas.

"Finrod, there is someone else you should speak with. He waits you there…" he pointed at one of the halls.

Finrod just bowed deeply, then nodded in greeting to Aragorn, and went in the showed direction.

There was a moment of silence. Then Aragorn looked at Belthrion. "Who are you really?"

The elf smiled. "I am one that was before time. I am the guide on the last road, and judge of souls… I am…" suddenly he changed, his figure growing in power and authority.

"… Lord Námo!" Aragorn answered subconsciously, falling to his knees.

The Vala did not reply, just stood there, an aura of cold and power around him. Then, the Vala's eyes looked distant, like looking into some moment in past or even future that Aragorn could not see. He started to sing. The song carried such aching beauty, such sadness, that Aragorn wept before the first tone ended. Námo sang only a few bars and then stopped and sighed.

"That's Lúthien's song…" he said quietly. "The one she sang to me to soften my heart, so I would allow her to be with Beren forever, even in death…" he sighed. "And now you are here, a descendant of their line, a Mortal in the halls of Elves, neither dead nor living. What should I do with you?"

It was clearly a rhetorical question, but Aragorn looked confused, and a little fearful. Drying his tears, he asked: "Neither dead nor living? But I thought I died… The poison…"

"You should have died," Námo assented matter-of-factly.

"Then why…"

"Because of Sauron," was the surprising reply.

"Sauron? How…"

Námo laughed shortly. "Why, how, when, where… I will tell you. But answer my riddle first."

Aragorn paled slightly. "A riddle? Is this… a riddle game? Like Bilbo with Gollum?"

Námo laughed. "No, of course not. Just a simple riddle."

Aragorn sighed with relief and bowed his head, for he could not do anything else. "Ask then, my lord."

"How many bricks does it take to complete a house?" Námo asked and Aragorn looked at him in confusion.

He thought for a moment, but then shook his head, indeed glad that this is not a riddle game. "I do not know, my Lord… It depends how big the house is."

But Námo smiled and shook his head. "Just one, my friend. Only the last one completes the house."

"Ah…" Aragorn nodded, but there was still a confused look on his face, wondering what does it have to do with a fallen Maia.

"A house of soul is built of deeds," Námo explained. "Only with the last deed, it is complete."

"What is his last deed, then?"

In that moment Námo suddenly stood up, as if a mountain would rise from a sea, and he looked dark and frightening, a cold shiver of inevitable doom.

Aragon fell to his knees without realizing it.

"The last deed of Mairon Aulendil, who became Sauron Gorthaur, is creating all this mess... and saving your life in the process."

Aragorn just stared at Námo, unable to say anything.

The Lord of Dead actually smiled at his expression. "I've told you, you shouldn't be here, haven't I? You should pass through the part of the Halls that's for the Mortals, and through it, beyond the Circles of The World. But instead, you ended here, where the Firstborn wait for their re-embodiment… Do you remember why?"

"He… opened a door…" Aragorn whispered with astonishment.

"Yes. He opened the door for you when he finally headed the call. I have called him to my Halls several times since he lost his power. He has not headed it – until now."

"For me?"

"I find it hard to believe as well…" Námo shrugged. "But it seems so. Maybe he just decided to do it anyways, and helped you along the way. In any case, there is no exit from here that leads beyond the circles of the world. You'll have to return…"

"And go through the proper way?" Aragorn asked quietly.

"Maybe…" Námo answered. "Or not. Your way is your own."

Aragorn nodded slowly, thinking about it. "When, my Lord?" he asked then.

"When you are ready," Námo answered, and then smiled slightly. "But I would appreciate sooner. Your presence is causing quite a stir."

"Oh… I'm really sorry my lord…."

"Don't be," Námo assured him. "I didn't say it's a wrong stir. Your coming was like a stone that sent ripples across the water. Some events that were long overdue have been finally set to motion. But a slight push is enough; too much might have an opposite effect."

Aragorn nodded slowly. "I will leave now, if you show me the way."

"It is here…" Námo smiled a little mysteriously, and in the same moment as he said that, Aragorn saw a door, hanging in the middle of the hall. He hesitated just a moment before entering it.


	20. The way home

He was old, the oldest of his tribe. He was the last who remembered the darkness that ate the sun, and the Horse-men who went to fight it. He was there when the council was held about it, and spoke for helping them, even if it meant revealing the secret paths. His son died during the last winter when there was a snowstorm with thunder and snowdrifts as high as a grown man, and not his grandson was the chieftain of the wild men.

Ghân-buri-Ghân was old, but he was wise. He could not hunt anymore, nor catch the fishes of the swift woodland streams, and his eyes did not see clearly, but he was a great listener. He understood the whispers of the trees and rain, he knew the paths of the animals and all springs and wells with good water, hidden in the woods, he could feel in the air how the weather will turn that year, how hot the summer will be and how much they should hunt to survive the winter.

In the same way as he could feel the rain in the air, he knew that his death is nearing. He lay under a great chestnut that day. It was an ancient tree, and its trunk was hollow and bark rough, but there was still life in its branches, and its leaves were green. The old leaves from previous year lay on the ground, crumpling and papery, soon to wither and turned into soil that will give life to new plants. That was the cycle of life, and he knew he has to follow it. The smell of the forest was all around him - the decaying wood, the wet moss. He breathed in deeply.

That breath was his last.

* * *

He saw his body lying beyond the tree, but it did belong to him anymore. He was glad. It was a good body, but it has reached its limits. It should be returned to the earth now. He sang to himself as he headed west, and ancient, wordless melody of his ancestors. He knew he will meet someone on the way – the wind has told him – and so he was looking around.

He smiled slightly when he found who he was looking for. It was the chieftain of the stone-men standing there, looking a little lost.

"Lost path?" he asked friendly as he approached.

The tall man looked up with surprise, as if he wouldn't expect seeing anyone here. He bowed his head, recognizing the wisdom of the one who stood before him. "I can see the path to the west… but I'm not prepared to follow it. There are many waiting for me here…"

Ghân-buri-Ghân just shook his head in understanding. "Would rather return to the stone-city, would you not?"

The man just nodded.

At that, Ghân-buri-Ghân smiled, and took down one leaf from the green crown he was wearing on his head. "Eat," he said simply.

The man looked at him without understanding.

"Eat..." Ghân-buri-Ghân repeated, mimicking the movement in case the man did not understand.

"Why…?"

"Poison," Ghân-buri-Ghân pointed his finger at the men chest. Then he pointed at the leaf. "Antidote."

The man's eyes widened. "How did you know?..."

"Wind told Ghân-buri-Ghân…" the wild man shrugged, as if nothing on the world would be clearer. "But now he has to go. The west calls. Have good path, and good hunting for family." He turned to go.

Aragorn looked after him for some time. "Have a good path as well, Ghân-buri-Ghân!" he called after him, and then finally ate the leaf. In the very moment he felt easier, and could feel the pull, calling him back to his body. A heartbeat…

He smiled and followed it, thinking that with a bit of luck, Arwen will never find out about this.


	21. Forgiveness

They faced each other – an elven prince, the former king and founder of Nargothrond, and the one who imprisoned him in his own fortress, Tol Sirion turned to Tol-in-Gaurhoth. With no pretension, no secrets, they faced each other this time, and Sauron's spirit seemed to diminish in the light of Felagund's face, for the blood of all three houses of Eldar was in his veins, and wisdom was in his eyes. Yet Finrod could not hide the distant pain in his eyes at the terrible memory of his death.

Sauron didn't move. He stood before the elven prince, as if awaiting his doom.

"Why did you come?" Finrod asked finally.

"To ask for forgiveness," Sauron replied simply.

Finrod just stared at him, unsure what to think.

"A dwarf told me to do it…" Sauron shrugged slightly, almost elegantly.

At that, Finrod found it really hard to hide his surprise.

"An old acquaintance," Sauron smiled. "It seems he was quite fond of you."

"Oh…" Finrod nodded in sudden understanding. "But why now?"

"Well, there was no chance before. I was occupied elsewhere."

"With the Rings…" Finrod said wryly.

"Yes." Sauron replied shortly. "With the Ring."

"And now you come here, asking for forgiveness…" Finrod shook his head slightly, as if it would be too much to take in.

"And you don't understand…"

Finrod nodded.

"A crown is like a ring. It binds… it gives power… What did the crown of Nargothrond mean to you?" the Maia asked quietly.

"Much." Finrod replied, looking at Sauron sharply.

"But you gave it up for a mortal. Your crown, your kingdom. You foretold your death, and yet you went with him. You gave your life for him. I… want to understand…"

Finrod sighed, and sat down at a bench near the fountain, knowing that the Maia has no power to harm him anymore. "When Galadriel married Celeborn, she asked me why I don't marry as well. It was then that I saw for the first time where the path of my life is going…"

"But you didn't turn back."

Finrod shook his head, and looked up sharply. "I still have nightmares about you and your werewolf," he stated flatly.

Sauron averted his eyes. "Even here, in Valinor?" he asked quietly.

"Does it surprise you?" Finrod raised his eyebrows.

"I just thought… that Irmo would assure you do not suffer anymore. You don't deserve it."

Now it was Finrod's turn to be surprised, and the surprise was genuine. "He… did not."

"I am sorry."

"You are?"

Sauron nodded. "When you were born in the noontide of Valinor, among Tirion's white walls, I was hiding in the ruins of Utumno, my Master a prisoner of the Valar. I was too afraid to reveal myself to be taken with him. You did it willingly, for a Mortal."

"For a friend…" Finrod said quietly.

Sauron looked at him for a long time. "For a friend…" he repeated even more quietly, and sighed.

There was a long silence between them.

"Will you give it to me, then?"

"Forgiveness?"

Sauron nodded.

"I don't know if I can. But I will try."


	22. Reasons

Sauron was alone with Námo now. He did not kneel.

Námo was quiet, looking deep into the Maia's soul. Sauron endured the look without a wince, although it took all his willpower to do so.

"Why?" Námo asked simply. "Why now?"

"You don't believe I did it for Aragorn, do you?" It was more a statement than a question.

"I believe you used the situation to appear repentant before the Judgment."

"Well, maybe a little…" Sauron smiled, but it was a tense smile. "Or… I really wanted to heed your call, but didn't want to come like a stray dog to a master's whistle. Maybe I just needed an… excuse to keep my dignity."

"That's possible as well…" Námo nodded thoughtfully. "What made you change your mind, though? When Morgoth was defeated, you could have come, but you didn't. It would be much easier back then. Why now?"

"I am tired," Sauron said simply. "All my hate is spent, all my anger burnt in the fire of Orodruin. I have nothing left. I seek… peace. Just for a while…"

The unsaid words hung in the space between them. _Just for a while, before you judge me and throw me into the Void…_

"I only ask you one thing…"

Námo raised his eyebrows, but Sauron continued quietly: "Please, do not bind me like Melkor…"

Námo sighed, and was looking somewhere through Sauron, through the walls with tapestries, to Beyond…

Then he nodded. "We will not, Child. It was a mistake to bind our fallen brother. We will not do

it again."

"Yes, it was a mistake…" Sauron whispered. "He was proud. You chained him, and wanted him to regret his sins. Maybe he would, if you did not humble him so…"

"We will never know…" Námo shook his head, and then his look was almost warm as he watched Sauron. "But you will not be chained in my halls. May you find the peace you are looking for, Child…"

Sauron bowed slightly. "Thank you…" he said, and the words were sincere.

"In my halls, you will have peace and solitude for one hundred years, so your spirit can heal. Then you will stand in Mahánaxar.

"So may it be," Sauron replied quietly.

"Use the time well. You cannot escape the Judgment. You know it, don't you?" Námo asked gently.

Sauron nodded. "I know. I tried to escape it twice, hiding when my Master was defeated. I do not want to hide anymore." He looked into Námo's eyes seriously. "I wish I could die."

"That gift is only for the Secondborn Children, not for us…" Námo shook his head.

"I do not want the gift. I just want… to stop being."

Námo looked at him, a long, wordless look that was both piercing and compassionate. "That's what the kings of Númenor were afraid of…"

"They did not know that their souls are not as fragile as their bodies. But a soul can hurt much more than body. And when the pain is too much… The Elves in Middle-earth would go to the Grey Havens and sail West, in hope to find healing. But for me, there is nothing in the West, nothing in Arda…"

Námo sighed, and gently took Sauron in an embrace.

The Maia stiffened, and tried to get out of it, but Námo held him firmly, and Sauron ceased his struggles after several moments, resigned.

"What about the Dwarves?" he asked suddenly, remembering Durin. "Where do they go after they die? Back to the stone?"

"That I can't reveal to you. But when the Blue Mountains were broken apart in the War of Wrath, and Belegost and Nogrod sank under the Sea, Aule's tears over the loss joined with Nienna's…"

"Why did the Fates allow that, then?" Sauron ask somehow bitterly, clearly thinking about something else.

Námo guessed his thoughts, and sighed. "We had no choice… neither there, nor for Númenor…"

Sauron was quiet for a long time. "I want to understand…" he whispered finally. "I want to know why Eru allowed it."

"So do I…" Námo sighed.

Sauron looked at him in surprise.

The Lord of Mandos smiled sadly. "I do not know, either. Eru's plans are bigger than even we can see or comprehend. I cannot give you an answer. The lessons of Mandos are not about understanding, but about acceptance. What happened, can't be changed…"

"I see…" Sauron sighed, and turned away from Námo. Without a thought or intent to give the Vala his obeisance or even end the conversation formally, he started walking away, wandering through the endless halls.


	23. Purpose

This part of the Halls seemed abandoned. There were no tapestries on the walls, just cold and uncut stone. Sauron wondered if they are used at all. He didn't even know how he got there, and hoped he will be able to find his way back.

He wanted to turn back the way he came from, but froze in the middle of the movement. He saw something with the corner of his eye. A movement… somebody was watching him. He felt no malicious intention though, just fear and cautiousness, like a wild animal fleeing from hunters. He turned quickly, but it wasn't there anymore.

For a few moments, he stood motionless, trying to catch a glimpse of it again. There was nothing though, just the rough, dark stones of the halls. He sighed and turned to leave again, but after a few steps, he turned suddenly. There it was – a pale, twisted spirit, looking at him with fear and curiosity just from a few steps' distance. It wanted to flee again, but froze under his intent look, like a mouse freezing under the sight of an eagle.

He said nothing to not drive it away. He didn't even move.

The spirit did not dare to flee, but it started to tremble, like a leaf in the wind.

"We did nothing wrong…" he could hear the weak voice. "We did nothing wrong… Please don't hurt us…"

He wanted to come a step closer, but as he moved, the spirit looked like prepared to flee, so he retreated a bit.

"I will not hurt you…" he said in a quiet voice. "Who are you?"

"M-m-master… we did nothing wrong! We did not want to follow… not to the Void!" the spirit sobbed.

A shade of understanding passed across Sauron's heart suddenly.

"Your master… he's Melkor?"

"No, Morgoth, no!" the spirit veiled.

"You are an Orc…" Sauron breathed out.

"Orc…" the spirit looked like tasting the word. "Yes… no, no!"

"You are an Orc… but once you were an Elf?" Sauron tried again.

The spirit nodded. "It called…" it said cautiously.

"What called? Or, who called?"

"It called Elves… Tall, bright eyes… But we heard too…"

"Yes…" Sauron whispered. "You were Elves once… You heard the call of Mandos…"

"We don't remember. But we did not want to follow the other call."

"Other call?"

"The Void. Master…" the spirit explained.

Sauron nodded with understanding. "The others did?" he asked.

"Many. Not all…"

Sauron suddenly realized he never thought of Orcs as living beings. They were resources, like stone or metal, like animals. He never wondered what happens to their spirit after death. He never wondered how deep their corruption is, and if there is still something left from the Elves they were before.

"There is more of you here?" he asked carefully, inadvertently taking a step forwards.

The spirit wanted to answer, but with that step, it froze, looking at Sauron intently. Apparently, it recognized him… "No! No Void! Don't take us after Master!"

"I don't want to take you anywhere…" Sauron said hastily, but the spirit was not listening to him anymore. It fled, staggering on the way.

Sauron sighed. "I don't want to go to the Void, either…" he whispered, and turned back the way he came, leaving the part of the halls behind.

* * *

He returned again, after some time – there were no days in Mandos. He sat on the place where he met the spirit, waiting. Nothing happened, so he stood up and went away when he got tired of it.

He came there again and again, sitting on the floor. It was strangely relaxing, to look at the rough walls after all the tapestries. Sometimes, he had the feeling as if someone would be watching him. Sometimes not. He didn't really know what he's trying to achieve, but it was something he could do and plan. He felt easier when he had a plan, even if it only including coming here and waiting.

And then, the spirit appeared again, cautiously peeking out from a dark alcove. "You… won't send us after Master?"

"No, I will not," Sauron said in a calm voice, although he suddenly felt nervous, afraid to scare the spirit away again.

"Then what do you want?"

Sauron shrugged. "I want to know you better. And the others, as well…"

* * *

"The one hundred years you promised him are over, Námo," Manwë was speaking with Námo in his thoughts. "Bring him to Mahánaxar tomorrow."

"With all respect, my lord…" Námo replied, "I do not think it's necessary."

"Not necessary? What do you mean?"

"I have Judged him already, my lord."

"You do not have the right! He has to stand before all the Valar!"

"I do. He is my Maia now."

"What?" Manwë's voice was surprised and a little annoyed.

"I won't allow you to throw him into the Void, or take him from here…" There was a trace of defiance in Námo's words.

Manwë sighed, his voice appeasing. "Nobody said we are going to do that. But he was Morgoth's chief lieutenant, and the second Dark Lord. He needs to be judged for his actions."

"Do you really find it necessary, my lord?" Námo sent Manwë a mental image.

"The Orcs?" Manwë asked in disbelief. "What is he doing?"

"Just the opposite of what Morgoth did," Námo replied. "He's turning them to Elves…"

"You told him to do that?"

"No. I knew they were in my halls, but they always fled before me, or my Maiar."

"I see now why you don't want to hand him over. Very well, Námo. May he be known as your Maia from now on…"

"Thank you, my lord." Námo smiled. "I will tell him immediately." There was just a bit of a mischievous trace in his voice, indicating he's really looking forward to see Sauron's face when he learns the news.


End file.
